ph_logs | February Event - Garden of Woe [Merrymeet]

February Event - Garden of Woe [Merrymeet]

**Plain text version here.

GARDEN OF WOE

To Meet is Merry...

It’s a beautiful day. Normally Merrymeet is held a tad later in the month, but thanks to some predictions from Phil, the festival planning committee managed to snag a date right in the middle of a patch of lovely warm days. A false spring --- there would be another snow by the following week. But it’s the first hint of a true spring waiting in the wings. The sun is shining, the grass on the festival green is slowly waking up, snowdrop flowers wobble in the breeze, and the weather is approaching something akin to balmy. It's as if Celestine herself carried in her opposite-most sister on a warm breeze, just for today.

Partygoers trickle in from all sides, gathering at the Festival Green. Each and every soul is dressed in their spring finest. And when Juniper Sweetwater once again ascends the steps to the gazebo, the crowd falls silent. The procession is about to begin.

Dress to Impress

Generally speaking, the dress code for Merrymeet is garden party formalwear. Appropriate outfits can fall anywhere in the Classic or Lavish categories. Characters here less than 2 months are able to get free rentals if they’d like, but can buy their outfit if they wish. Everyone else is asked to please purchase their outfit (from 300-500B, depending upon complexity).

Short on Brass? Drop by Gourd en Glace before the event and grab yourself a sundae and bring it up to Venka Meridell, the proprietor who also happens to be the local tailor’s daughter. She’ll slip you a coupon for a half-price Merrymeet outfit if you’re willing to taste test one of her unorthodox new ice cream flavors. Her mother, Saraya, will begrudgingly accept these coupons. [Mod Note: Please only take this option if you have 500B or less in your ledger, we are trying to get some of these rich-ass characters to spend their damn money!]

Once you’re all dressed to the nines, please feel free to use the code below to show off your drip in the Fashion Show thread!

Crowning of the Flower Queen

Once Mayor Poe gives the signal, a band begins to play, signalling the entrance of the Floral Court. A hush falls over the crowd as they watch the nominees enter, one at a time and escorted by their chosen companion. Many beloved community figured were nominated this time, and competition was stiff--- the crowd is eager to see who is named their Flower Queen.

Then, the procession begins in earnest as each member of the Floral Court (Valdis, Ylva, Margaret, Lyubov, CT, Alice, Fever, Magne, Olivia, Anya, and Helena) is escorted through the festival green and up to the gazebo. Standing at the top of the short flight of gazebo stairs is Juniper Sweetwater, a poised and delicate Wood Elf with pale brown hair. Gracing each pair with a greeting of “hail and merry meet”, she places a small ring of flowers upon the brow of each member of the court, and hands each one a matching boutonniere or corsage to bestow upon her plus-one. Juniper lets each pair file into the gazebo to take their seats.

Then some of the other leading ladies arrive and do much the same--- first, Drelasa, who won third place, and then Elsie and Sally, who tied for second. Behind them is Sally’s toddler Gwen, who is “escorted” (carried) by her older brother Yellow, both of whom are invited to join as special guests. Juniper takes a moment to bestow each of the women with a slightly larger crown, and a bouquet decorated with a ribbon indicating their place and a brass or silver charm as a token of their achievement.

Finally, the last to enter is the Flower Queen herself. The music swells as this year’s Queen, Dahlia Leeds, is escorted by her Courtier, Radar O’Reilly. A murmur sweeps over the onlooking crowd of surprise and excitement as Dahlia proceeds through the parted crowd. Once one of the most beloved people in town, Dahlia has barely been seen outside her home since her fall from grace at her birthday gala. And when she has, she’s looked sallow and miserable, a husk of herself. And yet here, today, she looks utterly radiant--- aside from the fact that she is very obviously weeping, utterly overcome with emotion at the fact that so many of her neighbors and friends still accept her. Tears of surprise, joy, relief, and gratitude pour down her face in thick streams that she cannot contain as she makes her way down the aisle with Radar, both of them dressed ornately in delicate blue.

The pair are showered with flower petals as they follow the winding trail, applauded quietly by festival goers before they reach Juniper. Fluidly, she swaps places with Dahlia so that the new Flower Queen is the one stood at the top of the stairs and the prior is on the ground.

“Hail and merry meet.” Juniper curtsies. “Today, just as I was two years ago, you have been chosen by the people of our town to be the Flower Queen. It is my honor to present you with gifts befitting a queen.”

Another townsperson passes her a basket, which Juniper presents to Dahlia. It contains a number of spring-themed treats--- honey harvested from last spring’s flowers, a bottle of specially crafted sweet festival wine to be consumed on the summer solstice, a candle embedded with dried flowers, a blend of lavender and bergamot tea, a charming floral soap, and a necklace with a pressed forget-me-not inside a clear pendant. There is also a medal hanging around the wine bottle shaped like an orchid bloom, engraved on the back with text. “Flower Queen 16:55 - Pumpkin Hollow - Dahlia Anastasia Leeds”. Juniper then passes the somewhat heavy basket off to Radar to carry--- after all, it’s the Courtier’s job to attend to the Queen!

Then, Juniper pins a boutonniere to Radar’s lapel, and beneath it, a medal of his own. “Floral Courtier - 16:55 - Radar O’Reilly”.

“With this sprig of Serannai’s glory, I bestow upon you the honored duty of Courtier to the Flower Queen. Assist her as she needs and ensure that she spends this day as free and joyful as a spring breeze.”

Lastly, Juniper turns back to Dahlia and takes up a crown of flowers, larger and more elaborate than the others, holding it aloft for a moment before resting it upon Dahlia’ss head.

“With this crown, I pass my title on to you. May it bring you felicity and fortune, so that you may share it with the earth as you put seed to soil.”

Before letting them go, Juniper leans in, beaming and grasping Dahlia’s hand tightly with the warmth of someone who has known her their whole life, and whispers, “Congratulations!” Then, she takes a step back, hurrying delightedly off into the crowd, leaving Dahlia to stand and look over the crowd of her friends, her neighbors, her loved ones, so many of whom have still chosen to embrace her. For a moment, all she can do is stand in awe.

Applause rings out over the crowd, music swells once more, and Merrymeet officially begins. Congratulations to Dahlia, and all the members of the Floral Court!

Eat, Drink, Be Merry!

It doesn’t take long for lunch to be brought out, courtesy of some helpful volunteers and the Oak & Iron’s diligent cooking staff. Salads full of spring greens, fresh bread with herbs baked in, puff pastries with fresh cheese and asparagus, egg tarts, chicken sandwiches, and crispy little hashbrowns formed into cups to look like bird nests, each with a devilled egg sitting inside. There are also dozens of little desserts made with flowers and spring berries, like cakes and custards, and even heart-shaped macarons.

And while there is wine being passed around the table, there is also tea. But this isn’t just any tea, and these aren’t just any tea pots. The pots are clear glass, surrounded by ornate silver fixtures, so that you can see the color of the tea and the leaves steeping within. Some are regular tea leaves rolling around in ball strainers while others are blooming floral teas perched in the center of the pots. And best of all, these teapots are enchanted courtesy of Dr. West, looking like chubby little tea puppies walking around on four short metal legs. They meander around between dishes on the tables, bumbling up to partygoers to offer their contents and tipping forward with surprising grace to pour tea into cups. They are helpfully labeled with tags tied to their handles, explaining what they contain.

While a few contain typical tea blends, others are marked as containing enchanted teas, provided by Aeryn Sallek. The enchanted blends are as follows:

Party Enhancer - An energizing and sweet lemon hibiscus tea that makes the drinker able to dance longer, sing louder, eat more, and worry less. Turn down your inhibition and turn up the fun! This is a great tea for people who want a little party boost without getting drunk.

Liquid Courage - Feeling too shy to dance? Nervous about asking that beautiful person to spend the day with you? Want to go for that first kiss but struggling to work up the nerve? This smooth lavender black tea will help!

Romance Reagent - For those looking to be a little more flirty or emotionally open, this rose milk tea has a higher concentration of the “emotional acuity” potion to help you be open with your true feelings and get your cuddle on. And this denser dose of potion will even have the added effect of making you a little more suave, as well.

Sultry Spice - For those looking to find someone nice and invite them somewhere more private. This warming apple spice tea literally just has a mild aphrodisiac in it.

Enjoy any of these with your meal to turn up the mood! While these teas are clearly labeled, it's up to you whether or not you actually read them. Accidents can happen!

Eating isn’t all there is to do, of course. The other primary activity is dancing!

Local musicians will be playing throughout the day for group and couple’s dances, including a local partner dance called the Sunrise Waltz and a classic maypole dance. Feel free to dance the afternoon away with partners, friends, new acquaintances, and more!

There’s also areas to catch your breath and chat with friends, a chocolate dipping station, flower sprouts in tiny pots as party favors, flower garland braiding areas, and plenty of wine! Additionally, there are a few flower-filled tents on the festival green with private seating areas for couples to catch a few moments alone. You’re not supposed to, but if you’re quiet and don’t mind a bit of risk, it wouldn’t be hard to sneak a little naughty fun into your day in these little tents.

And of course, there is the planting ceremony later in the day, so feel free to join Dahlia and Juniper at the edge of the green for this short tradition! With an apron thrown over her dress and a short spade, Dahlia takes a moment out of the festivities to plant a tulip bulb in a half-empty row near the gazebo, right next to the one Mary Dahl planted the year prior, and Juniper herself the year before that.

...But Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

Ballad of the Damned

Would any event on a cursed island truly be complete without some sort of unscrupulous paranormal activity? Truly, nothing is sacred (except maybe the Dance of Celestine, once), as yet another of Dahlia’s infernal relatives arrives bearing “gifts” to put a damper on her special day.

As night begins to fall, the afternoon band is finally given time to rest and retire to the party themselves, intended to be replaced by a Council-approved evening band. However, said musical group is waylaid on their way to the stage, and replaced with an act far stranger.

On the left part of the stage, a man with pipes embedded in his chest begins to sing a low note, accompanied by a deep, rich harmony as though his chest were a pipe organ. Perhaps it is. On the right side, an older man who almost looks human, save for the exposed “ribcage” full of harpstrings. And at the front, a pale woman dressed all in white with a veil covering all but her mouth, who sings like an angel over the music of her companions. The man in charge and his large sitar are conspicuously absent.

When Sonata begins to sing, two things begin to happen. The first is that black, thorny vines emerge from the slumbering ground, encasing the performers in thick foliage with gaps only big enough for the sound of their music to escape, and thorns big enough to ward off any interruptions. The second is that anyone who can hear the music will find that the sound floods their mind with memories of grief, pain, loss, and loneliness. So intense are these memories and emotions that even the most strong-willed can barely keep from weeping, with only a few exceptions.

Those with protection from demons will find their suffering great, but not debilitating, and Father Mulcahy’s boon from Mortanne and personal experience combined are enough to offset the more soul-crushing effects of the somber music. However, these things alone will not be enough. With the infernal band protected, the Domain of Sorrow’s Song will continue leeching anguish from the party-goers for their master for as long as they can. The only way to combat them is to cut off their source of power through self-imposed joy--- a challenging task, given the situation.

Luckily, a friend from outside the barrier interested in helping his daughter has sent some friends to help you get started.

March of the Bizzyboys

Five Drainfolk in red uniforms find themselves in a forest. Little teal-furred monkey-folk with long hair and longer tails stand amid pink trees and a gaggle of little fuschia butterflies. Their names are Vibiano, Grujaja, Bananathaniel, Alexei, and Patty--- mysteries, until recently, revealed a few letters at a time. The wind sings like bamboo wind chimes through the pastel branches.

The butterflies swarm together, forming the shape of a person, and from the flock emerges a strange man. With chitinous hands and a face covered in dark pink wings, he steps free of the fluttering mass and onto a stump, wearing long fur robes, and he smiles a toothy smile.

“Hello there, Bizzyboys! I am King Olwylder, Archfae of the Court of Red Butterflies,” he says with a sweeping bow. Then, he leaps down from his makeshift stage, his own enormous wings splayed out behind him. He lands crouching, diminishing his impressive height to get onto their level. “I have a very important favor to ask you.”

“You see, some old friends of yours, as well as my beloved daughter Elsie, have been caught up in a bit of trouble. I need you to go to a little town called Pumpkin Hollow for the evening and help them out. Afterwards, you can stay there a while, or not, if you prefer. But during the flower festival they have going on, I need you five little darlings to do me a very, very important favor, and do what you do best. I need you to solve a mystery. Can you help me?”

Once all five Bizzyboys have agreed, Olwylder shakes each of their fuzzy hands and thanks them profusely, covering their red uniforms in pink flowers before sending them on their very merry way. They ride to Pumpkin Hollow on the back of a black horse, driven by a man with no head, and fan out in search of their old bosses as well as Olwylder’s daughter.

The five original Bizzyboys, played as guest NPCs, arrive at Merrymeet just before the band begins to play, and are immune to all of its effects due to the blessing of King Olwylder and sheer adorable whimsy. Threading with one of them can help you acquire the self-made fun you need to break the spell yourself, which you can then spread to others! These delightful shenanigans have been graciously provided by five helpful players, so please thank Liz, Sid, Mira, Maniette, and Kai for their assistance in making the magic happen! Once the event ends, it will be up to each player whether their Bizzyboy remains in PH or heads back home.

| CONTENT WARNINGS: altered states of consciousness, mildly dubious consent, grief, depression, mood control |

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

_{[ For reference, Here's what she's wearing! ]}

no.1 Eat, Drink and Regret Your Decisions

[ Closed to CT ]

A month and a half’s time in Pumpkin Hollow is spent unceremoniously, and the routine Ripley’s found herself leaves little room for observing the town’s splendor. Mineshafts, the occasional meal at the O&I and brief run-ins— some more strange than others— with the townsfolk is about all she’s had the time for. And the nightmares, obviously. How can one forget about the nightmares?

”Can’t be that extravagant, can it?”

A tremulous purr sounds in response. Wigglesworth’s mismatched eyes stare up at her.

”I just have to show up.”

Not quite. Much to her dismay and misjudgment, here she stands; an unbidden member of the Court’s procession, made only marginally less painful by CT’s company. The woman in question is dressed in a delicate floral pattern, neckline scooped to reveal hills and crests of caramel skin and beaded jewelry. A star-shaped scar stamps below her collarbone. Another drags a long line up her chest. Ripley admires her respectfully, as in her face goes briefly pink upon first seeing her. Is it hot in here? Right, they’re outside…

She walks arms-linked with her companion, hand rested on the muscled flat of CT’s upper arm. Her own dress shimmers, splits to reveal a slender leg as they make their way through the ceremony. ”You know,” She mutters, “When I nominated you, I didn’t think it’d be so serious. Are these things always…?”

The question fizzles out as she looks into the crowd, constituted by several dozen people she’s never seen before. Twists of flowers hang from baskets and spill over the Court table in lavish, colorful spreads. Not quite so colorful, though, as the well-dressed group who eagerly awaits their Flower Queen named.

Dahlia Leeds.

Ellen smiles a little, watches the poor girl sob for reasons she isn’t privy to.

Applause rings out through the crowd and the festivities begin.

…Which means she can leave, right?

If only.

Ripley takes up her seat next to CT, raising a glass of... What kind of tea is this again?

"Congrats again on the special nomination." She cracks a sarky grin, then drops it for something akin to exhaustion. "Though maybe it's more of a cruel and unusual punishment than I initially thought."

no.2 I Can’t Possibly

As folks drink their choice of wine or enchanted tea, it’s a mere matter of time before the Festival Green is taken over by dancing. A fiddler commands the crowd’s energy with his cheery beat, most of whom rise to the occasion without holding back. Ripley is decidedly not among them. Would sooner tear her own heart out than embarrass herself by stumbling onto the dance floor. Ask her to keep a rhythm? She'll laugh in your face. Yes, it'd take a dedicated dancer to coax her from her perch. For now, she prefers to stand with drink in slender fingers, watching the crowd sway and plenty entertained by it.

That is, until a shape— familiar or not, who’s to say— parts the crowd to reach for her.

She looks pointedly horrified. Thin brows raise, her mop of curly hair almost frizzing in protest. “Oh— oh, no. I don’t really—”

no.3 This is a Rental

[CW: Thorn-induced gash]

At some point during the evening, the mood sours. The sun dips low over the horizon and new players take the stage, ushering in notes of minor key which permeate the air like a thick miasmic cloud. Were their appearance not disturbing enough to give those enjoying themselves pause, then certainly the crowd of thorns will do the trick. They creep across the ground to encompass the players, cutting dresses and pricking trousered ankles, sparing no one— including Ripley.

She's caught by a monstrous one, like a dragon's spine, which cuts a neat red line cut into her bare thigh. Blood springs to the surface, trailing down her skin faster than she can clamp a hand atop it. Shit. Shit. This is a rental! If she stains this dress that's more Brass down the drain then she can spare. What the fuck is going on here?

Maybe it's time to leave.

Maybe she ought to find Connie.

Maybe—

Tears, like the blood, begin to flow freely. She doesn't know where they've come from or why, only that a sudden weight begins to torment her chest, goaded on by music. A ribcage instrument harkens memories better forgotten. She fights through bodily pain but every effort to do so is doubled-down by another kind of hurt. Fear, fire. Hair ripped clean from the scalp, sweaty palms clutching the handle of a cat-carrier. She sees her mother. She sees her captain. Hears the shrill cry of her peer's last moments alive. Smells the blood and death and— god.

"Excuse me—" Ripley snaps; isn't sure herself if she'd meant to flag down the person in front of her or try and shoulder through them.

no.4 Wildcard!

Want to pull Ripley aside? Offer her a drink, drag her to braid some garland? Maybe you recognize her from a dream. Maybe you’re overcome by sadness and need a shoulder to cry on. Or maybe you’re just a sucker for tall women with resting mean-face. Whatever the reason— surprise me!

Edited 2025-02-16 07:33 (UTC)

The whole affair is utterly unlike anything CT has ever taken part in before, a distant cry from military formalities or academic events from long ago. The pervasive sense of community among the locals is more familiar, reminiscent of the neighbourhoods she used to roam in a city so much larger and yet no less self-reliant, but even after months here she still feels out of step with it. Unsure of her place in this odd little town, outside of the work she's doing to try and find a way to free it.

(She's even less sure of how to feel about everything Dahlia, but for all her distrust of everything the woman is and the earned distrust in return, she has no desire to sour the day any.)

But still she smiles and plays her part, in her nice new dress and low, practical heels that frankly do very little to reduce the height difference between herself and her plus-one. The ceremony comes and goes and they're left to settle for lunch, extravagant foods and aromatic teas making their way across the tables, and CT turns to Ripley with a crooked, amused smile tugging at her lips.

"Luckily for us both, I was never at any real risk of winning this thing," she ribs, good-naturedly. There's no self-depreciation in the words, she never had any expectation of anything else—the other candidates are infinitely more suited to the criteria and CT doubts she would've been nominated if not for Ripley.

Inviting her to take up the role of her plus-one was 'retaliation' in the most joking sense, and she can't say Ripley's reactions to the whole procession don't amuse her. Nor can she say she's unaware that the cut of her dress rather draws the eye, especially after a playful 'So, how do I look?' before they were all expected to really fall in line.

That's okay. It's not as if she can't appreciate how Ripley looks all dressed up, either. She's got eyes.

"As for what you tried to ask earlier, this is the first event like this I've actually attended here. Though I believe Mourner's Night involves about as much ceremony of a different kind."

"You're right," Ripley cups her chin in her hand, swirls around her glass of lavender tea. "I can't imagine we'd give the crowd anything by way of a satisfying reaction." Is it a little underhanded? Perhaps. Does she think any less of the Flower Queen for bursting into unrestrained tears, despite not knowing the reason for them? No, Ripley simply observes. Suspects there's more at play than simple winner's flattery.

The use of risk, however, makes her snicker. It really is an apt word, for she had taken a risk unknowingly, involving herself in ceremonies she'd had no precedent of. Now she's paying for them, satisfying CT with her little discomforts, much to Ripley's chagrin.

Well, she can't say she doesn't deserve it. She is the one who put her name on the ballot in the first place.

But maybe this could be nice. The tasty abundance offers more variety than what her meager salary allows— diet consisting mostly of bland oatmeals and whatever stew the O&I serves— and Ripley isn't shy in picking out what she wants.

"Some kind of death ceremony, I'm guessing?" A low purr of intrigue. "Somehow all of this makes my experience back home feel so... Austere. You were lucky to get a birthday party, let alone celebrate the coming and going of seasons."

She eyes the crowd like their presence is some thinly veiled threat.

"I had no idea there were so many people here."

"Even a small town feels a lot less small when a good ninety percent of the population is gathered for one event," CT says with a vague noise of agreement, glancing out over the crowd herself before turning back to actually start picking out food. "We didn't really have anything like this at home, either. We had celebrations for Foundation Day—the anniversary of the colony being officially settled—plus a couple other cultural events, but those were different."

City-based, the public celebrations would take the form of parades, street parties, that sort of thing. Less of a focus on any given set of individuals.

"And on the Invention we didn't get seasons. Hell, I don't think any of us ever really celebrated a birthday either—we weren't really meant to talk about our lives outside the project, and even if you didn't care about that we were so busy. I might've been the only one on the ship that knew more than a couple people's birth dates."

Not because people told her, but because she had a tendency of hacking into and reading the files of everyone she worked with.

"Were you planetside for very long? Before the Invention?" Ripley watches an enchanted tea puppy stumble across the table, dodging plates and tripping over silverware. She's never seen anything quite like it— and for a moment she's certain it must be a robot. But this is Pumpkin Hollow, and one really ought to know better.

She reaches out to steady the thing. It trills in response, wagging a little chrome tail before stumbling away. Cute little bastard.

"...Our's wasn't so different. I spent some time in Lunar quarantine, so no celebrations there. After that, I went right to school. If you wanted to make anything of yourself, which I did, you couldn't afford to slack off. Birthday parties included. But maybe we dodged a bullet there."

Graduations were okay; perhaps the only celebration worth the effort of showing up to, for they were a testament to hard work. A trading of effort for certification, job security, the promise to make something of oneself— never mind that Ripley's something turned out to be Weyland Yutani, a less than reputable mega-corporation, not entirely dissimilar to CT's.

CT watches the little pot come and go with an amused quirk to her smile, recognising them from Neil's house. Adorable little things, really. It makes sense to bring them out for such a flowery affair, she supposes.

"Twenty-five years, give or take a few months," she answers, before elaborating: "I never actually left my home colony until the program signed me on, I did all my early service in my local army. Which I only even signed up to so I could pay my way through college."

Tale as old as time, isn't it. Resol's colonial army was never a full fighting force, not like those who went off to fight in the front lines of the war, but they still needed people there to fight the local Insurrectionist cell and what better way to bring in fresh meat than offer things like college tuition. A trading of effort, indeed.

"Once I was done with my degree I mostly stayed on because they paid better than the actual programming positions I'd be going for, so I got on-the-job training as an intelligence specialist, taught myself anything they didn't teach me, and the rest is history." She tears apart a fresh bread roll, takes a bite and goes quiet for a moment to chew. "Leaving was never the plan, but I pissed off the local military supplier and signing onto the Project was the only way out of charges. It made sense at the time."

She casually brushes some crumbs from her cleavage and reaches for her drink.

"If only the military excelled in anything as aptly as they do roping in young people on the basis of being broke." Ripley huffs derisively, throwing one long leg over the other and channeling her indignation into picking apart a napkin. "They turn good people into guns-for-hire. That, or you get kids too eager who get themselves killed. Maybe your's is different, but when are they really?"

The existence of Private Military Contractors only complicated things; businesses with no restriction who could throw their band of troops wherever if given a large enough sum. Organizations, so grandiose in their wealth and body-count, that they act as small governmental bodies themselves; feudal crowds who bully lesser colonies under the guise of providing protection.

Impossible not to play a part in their advancement, really. Perhaps that's what pinches her nerves so. Ellen's service on the Nostromo would have provided fuel to their fire, had she not exploded the damn thing.

Good riddance.

In truth, her (mostly) positive feelings for the Company were dashed the minute she learned they'd declared her and the other's lives as dispensable.

Nevertheless, curiosity wills a bit of life into her. Ripley straightens, tucks fluffy strands of hair behind her ear and leans forward a little. "Mm, and what'd you do to piss them off so much?"

"The UNSC is definitely no different, though thanks to the war with the aliens we really can't do without them. I don't even really remember a time before human occupied space was under martial law."

Three-going-on-four years old, when the war started. Not old enough to remember the time before in anything more than flashes of a childhood unrelated to the complex political atmosphere of humanity's colonies. Her brother was barely a few years older, but he still always seemed a little more aware of the difference than she was. Maybe that was why he went Innie when she just couldn't bring herself to cross that line.

She has no love for the UNSC, but she could never look at the Resistance and see anything but people playing with the survival of humanity as a species. What use would a grand grand revolution be if humanity ended up extinct?

Not that she didn't push back in her own ways.

"Oh, I leaked evidence that they were knowingly providing the colonial army with faulty equipment," comes the answer to the question, coated in a touch of pride she doesn't bother to mask but that is briefly hidden in the rim of her drink. "Their cybersecurity was frankly terrible. Once it went public they were forced to fix it. Not that that stopped me getting arrested, but it was worth it."

Ellen Ripley | Alien (1979) | no.1 Closed to CT, others OTA

eat, drink and regret your decisions

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2- though she *does* like a tall woman with a resting meanface...I just really wanna meet Ripley :D

Hellooo! :D I saw this and got so excited, I love Rip meeting new folks

Me too - and sorry for the delay, it has been a *time*, does not reflect my enthusiasm :P

No worries! I hope all is well~

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This is a Rental

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cw: Alzheimer's and gore mention

2- though she does like a tall woman with a resting meanface...I just really wanna meet Ripley :D

Me too - and sorry for the delay, it has been a time, does not reflect my enthusiasm :P