Greg Universe (
fragileandsoft) wrote in
lostcarnival2017-03-09 07:11 pm
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From the moment the meat hits the flame
Who: All those not gone to hell.
When: Evening Day 67 - Day 68
Where: The cookhouse
What: Stress cooking, stress eating, general stress.
Note: General mingle thread!
Many have been taken, many have gone after, and those who remain have little else to do but wait for the results on the other end. For once, the carnival is very, very quiet.
Though the rides are shut down, the games are still, the attractions unattended, there's still one central place for people to gather. All the kitchen staff has gone, but the lights in the cookhouse remain on, and the smell of food still wafts through the air. Anyone not content to wait alone would do well to look here for company and comfort.
When: Evening Day 67 - Day 68
Where: The cookhouse
What: Stress cooking, stress eating, general stress.
Note: General mingle thread!
Many have been taken, many have gone after, and those who remain have little else to do but wait for the results on the other end. For once, the carnival is very, very quiet.
Though the rides are shut down, the games are still, the attractions unattended, there's still one central place for people to gather. All the kitchen staff has gone, but the lights in the cookhouse remain on, and the smell of food still wafts through the air. Anyone not content to wait alone would do well to look here for company and comfort.
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"Ah, hey, to anyone who's... here. Uhh, I'm gonna be over at the cookhouse, if anyone's not feeling like cooking for themselves. I'm not up to Koel's level, sure, but I know my way around a grill. Maybe I'll see you there."
He's already set up over in the kitchens before sending out the message, and is scrambling around the space trying to find the supplies. Greg's never been in a kitchen this large or well-stocked. Meat's in this fridge, shoot where's the bread, oh vegetables are over here... well, he's probably not gonna use those, but good to know... is this oven on? He meant to do the grill. Is convection a problem here?
Soon enough he's got his act together well enough that the smell of cooking meat begins filling the space. More meat than needed to feed one person; who knows when everyone's coming back, but he's sure they'll come back hungry.
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Sherlock's supposed to stay in bed, he feels like he should stay in bed, but his restless mind wouldn't allow him to truly relax. They'd gone without him, he'd been asleep when everyone had left, which was a good thing for his health, not a good thing for his guilt. He hadn't been able to save anyone the first time, and now he definitely couldn't save anyone this time.
Despite the pain, dizziness, and pounding headache, he followed the delicious scent, forked tongue flicking out rapidly as he wandered into the kitchen. It was the right temperature and humidity for a snake-man, at least. He was well-equipped for the scarfing of a lot of food, too, for he sported a snake jaw and snout, probably courtesy of the mask he'd worn at the masquerade.
His housecoat hung loosely down one shoulder, his button-up shirt rumpled, as he held onto a counter for stability.
He was totally fine, he could have easily gone in that fight, right?
Nope, time to sit down. He fumbled for a seat.
"Don't mind me," he said to the current cook, who wasn't the old cook, at least to his knowledge. Right now he was lucky he could remember his own name.
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Greg eyes him in concern. Well, full stomach can cure a lot of ails, probably. He's not this guy's dad. Or a nurse, for that matter.
"Ah, sure. You sit right there. I'll get you some water."
He backs away a couple steps before turning his back--not out of any mistrust of Sherlock, but to make extra certain his hair doesn't end up anywhere near a flame. This new plant stuff growing out of his hair is unruly, and doesn't react well to getting tied back.
"What're you hungry for? I got links and burgers on the grill."
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"Water? Erm, thanks." Better than drinking out of an old vase that used to hold flowers. Because that happened once before when he was quality off his rocker. And quite likely to happen again in this state.
A forked tongue flicked out. His stomach growled.
"Both of those sound excellent, if you don't mind."
Sherlock actually wasn't necessarily someone who sought out food when he was upset, he rarely ate on a case, but he wasn't on a case right now, he has scarcely eaten all week except for Jimmy's roast beef he'd gotten when he wasn't in the end tent. He hated this, not being able to help, not being able to affect the outcome, just waiting was driving him mad.
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"Hey. Still got one of the kitchen crew left. You want a hand?" Jimmy could take the day to chill, but making sides and chopping vegetables is a welcome distraction.
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"Oh--jeez. Sorry Jim, I thought--"
He clears his throat into a hand. He then frowns down at the hand, and then goes to wash it in the sink. "I mean, if you're up for it, it'd be a help. I don't know the lay of the land too well."
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"And hey, it's a good idea, seeing if people want to try and get their mind off it a little." Sobering thought, but there isn't much anybody can do.
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(Though what happened after he did is another matter entirely.)
Slithering into the kitchen, she smiles faintly to see Greg bustling about and cooking up a storm--whatever it is he's grilling, it smells delicious. "Any chance you could use another set of hands?"
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He got a little bit overzealous with such a big kitchen to work with, throwing that much meat on the grill before figuring out where everything else is.
one day I will tag punctually jfc
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"Hey. Need any help?"
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With the strain of circumstances, Greg fails to pick up on anything going on with Lauren besides the pervasive dour mood. "You know your way around a knife, right?"
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"I can cut vegetables, if that's what you're asking."
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Stepping into the cookhouse, absently rubbing at his arms as if he were cold, his gaze swept around the room before he caught sight of Greg briefly. It helped him relax some and he slowly wandered back towards the kitchens themselves, offering a tired and halfhearted smile to the man.
"Need any help?"
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"If you're offering, it's welcome."
Somehow, it's a little surprising to see someone largely unfamiliar showing up with that offer. They've maybe crossed paths once or twice, but he can't place where.
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He peers into the kitchen quietly, coming in as he sees Greg cooking. He's not sure exactly what he's making, but it certainly smells good...
"What are you cooking?"
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"Making some stew for when people come back. Not sure how long it'll take, but they're sure to be hungry." He gives his best effort to make it sound idle and matter-of-fact. Everyone WILL be back before long, and they'll all be fine and ready to eat something. Like any other day! "But if you're looking for something to chow on now, I still have a few burgers left."
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He shakes his head at the offer, though, even as he comes in to peer into the pot.
"I'm not very hungry... I just thought you might want some company." By which of course he means that he wants some company, but he doesn't say that right now.
OTA
He's sitting at a bar counter near the part of the kitchen where Greg is busy doing his thing, resting his chin on his hand as he watches him (and possibly others? perhaps they've come and gone by now) go. There's a little metal clasp on top of some gauze around his neck, though it's not longer injured. It's just nasty, and he hates looking at it.
Lars is always hungry, but hasn't been once since the attack. He's kind of eaten, once or twice, but has mostly been sleeping—even once he was well enough to walk around again. Now, however, while his appetite is still nowhere to be found, he can feel familiar cramping in his belly.
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It's been a while since he's eaten anything. To be honest, he's been avoiding it. He's gotten better at tuning out the constant awareness of other people's blood and body heat, but coming from a hot kitchen to a space where the only thing generating heat is a person's circulation makes it stick out more. If he's using his natural vampiric allure, he isn't aware of it.
ISNT LAURENS LIFE HARD ENOUGH RIGHT NOW
So when he notices Lauren staring at him, Lars's elbow slips out from under him in surprise, along with the palm that's been holding up his head. He catches himself before he comes close to bashing his head on the table, thankfully, and his palms are now flat on the table, gazing back at Lauren with a weird sort of nervousness that Lars tends to only exude around people who intimidate him. It's a category Lauren doesn't normally fall into. Whether it's the intensity of the gaze, vampiric allure or something else, it's, uh... not yet clear.
"The fuck're you lookin' at, man?!" Lars blurts, his voice a shrill, nervous pipe.
naaaaaah
"Sorry..." he starts, trailing off afterwards. Maybe if he just apologized that would be enough? Of course, he can still hear the pulse of Lars heart, even from this far away, but he can sense the blood of those in the kitchen as well. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, pushing down the instinct that insists these mortals are beneath him.
"Sorry." he repeats stronger this time, actually looking Lars in the eye now as he speaks.
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/ARRIVES A BILLION YEARS LATE
Finally, Greg comes over next to Lars, a burger-laden plate in each hand. "Hey there, Lars. Mind if I sit with you while we eat?" All this kitchen business has worked up a proper appetite instead of his usual nervous eating.
/counters by responding a billion years late
"Uh, yeah, sure. Knock yourself out."
There's a handful of people Lars would have told off instead of welcoming, but... that number has been diminishing gradually, and Greg's been early among them.
After all, he can't keep up his shtick forever.
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Well, the ones that aren't kidnapped.
There's absolutely nothing Tamaki can do about that now, though, not having any real fighting experience or skills. Instead he's sulking, taking angry bites of the foot in front of him. It's something to occupy his hands with, and he's always hungry anyway, but it can't fully distract him from their missing friends and coworkers. Occasionally, he pushes the vegetables that somehow ended up his plate off with low energy pokes of his fork.
He swipes them out of the way when someone comes around looking for a seat.