krouse (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
equivo) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
etrayalogs2024-07-19 05:41 pm
equivo) wrote in etrayalogs2024-07-19 05:41 pm
Entry tags:
mission 4 catch-all | i am the key to the lock in your house
WHO: Lecter-Griffin-Krouse household
WHEN: During Mission 4
WHERE: Moorecroft Village
WHAT: Domestic gothic
NOTES\WARNINGS: Marked in subject lines
The new house is bigger than the one Krouse grew up in. Two stories, a garage, a well-kept lawn rolling from sidewalk to siding. It looks like an exterior shot on a sitcom, waiting for the title splash over its inoffensively pale beige walls.
Inside, it's exactly what anyone would expect. The front door opens onto a short stretch of tile in the hallway in case there's still dirt clinging to shoes after wiping them off on the bristling welcome mat. A living room that dropped out of the sample catalog in a book of paint swatches opens up on one side, a neat office and organized kitchen on the other. There's a half-bathroom downstairs, a full one upstairs, and three bedrooms set up for three occupants with just enough variation between them to make it clear which one is meant for who.
It's a coincidence that the twin bed in Krouse's room is exactly where his old bed used to sit, tucked into the left corner against the wall. There are only so many places you can put a bed in a room that make sense. He still stands in the doorway for a while, his hands tight on the straps of his backpack, before he shakes it off.
Everything about their temporary residence is normal. After he unpacks and heads back downstairs, he realizes that's what so oppressive about it. This isn't a place people live. It's a place where they pretend to.
He can work with that. He gives the ground floor another sweep from the foot of the stairs, marking sightlines and cover, and heads to the kitchen for their first house meeting.
WHEN: During Mission 4
WHERE: Moorecroft Village
WHAT: Domestic gothic
NOTES\WARNINGS: Marked in subject lines
The new house is bigger than the one Krouse grew up in. Two stories, a garage, a well-kept lawn rolling from sidewalk to siding. It looks like an exterior shot on a sitcom, waiting for the title splash over its inoffensively pale beige walls.
Inside, it's exactly what anyone would expect. The front door opens onto a short stretch of tile in the hallway in case there's still dirt clinging to shoes after wiping them off on the bristling welcome mat. A living room that dropped out of the sample catalog in a book of paint swatches opens up on one side, a neat office and organized kitchen on the other. There's a half-bathroom downstairs, a full one upstairs, and three bedrooms set up for three occupants with just enough variation between them to make it clear which one is meant for who.
It's a coincidence that the twin bed in Krouse's room is exactly where his old bed used to sit, tucked into the left corner against the wall. There are only so many places you can put a bed in a room that make sense. He still stands in the doorway for a while, his hands tight on the straps of his backpack, before he shakes it off.
Everything about their temporary residence is normal. After he unpacks and heads back downstairs, he realizes that's what so oppressive about it. This isn't a place people live. It's a place where they pretend to.
He can work with that. He gives the ground floor another sweep from the foot of the stairs, marking sightlines and cover, and heads to the kitchen for their first house meeting.
House Meeting
It's an insult, that the twin bed in her room is shrouded in a translucent princess canopy while the rest of the room is utilitarian bare. There's also an empty bookshelf, and an empty desk against a window that overlooks the roof of the shingled slope of the attached garage.
There's not so much unpacking as there is just dropping the recent iteration of her staple go-bag by the foot of her bed and moving on to the back yard. There is an equally well maintained sweep of lawn behind the house as there is in front, enclosed in the shadow of a 7.5 foot high wooden privacy fence. A blooming garden-bed flanks the base of the house back here, and she notes that it should be cleared away to mitigate any fire risk. Then into the garage, where a sleek black luxury car coexists alongside a dull red compact — a showhorse alongside a reliable beater. There's a sleek metal workbench in here too, with neatly placed tools suspended on a pegboard hung on the wall above. And a few cannisters of what look like they could be gasoline in here too.
Clarke is already in the kitchen when Krouse enters, stationed in front of the digital calendar that also lists out their mundane mission objectives. Her hands are laced together in front of her, fingers intertwined and thumbs twiddling with the nervous energy that comes from caution smothering the need to touch every surface in the entire house. It's new, it's fascinating; it's sterile and weird, Clarke is as fascinated as she is uncomfortable. But it's also just a mission.
house meeting but make it creepy
Hannibal keeps his lips tightly shut as he stands to survey his bedroom. It's terrible. The mattress is just okay. The sheets are barely up to his standard. His tongue grazes along his teeth and sucks as he feels them between his fingers. The only show of disgust is when he is alone with no one watching him. He sets his sketchbook down on the desk, along with his pencils. A heavy, deep energy is in the air. The hatred he feels toward Aurora, toward Eos, radiates off of him -- but disappears the second he makes his way into the kitchen.
He'd brought his own knives. He didn't trust the ones that Eos may possibly provide. He can smell them before he reaches them, two young familiar scents that intertwine. Clarke's scent is more welcomed than Krouse's, but he's never had the two of them in the same space.
"Clarke, Krouse- good to see you. I haven't kept either of you long, have I?" He knows he hasn't, their scents are fresh in the kitchen.
Yet they have clearly been each others space; something he notices as he brushes past Clarke to put his knives away, all previously rolled into a clean leather case. He casts two pointed glances from Krouse to Clarke, then swipes a finger along the counter to test for dust in an absent sort of way. He is unsatisfied with what he picks up, rubs it between thumb and forefinger. The place is barren compared to his home. No paintings, no fresh herbs hanging, no piano.
"I think you both know me well enough to be aware that I won't force you to attend anything you don't want to. I certainly won't be." A brief pause, "However, I make every meal myself daily. You'd be foolish to miss those." He's making light of the situation, but there's an underlying request there that isn't to be missed.
no subject
The sunlight catches the ends of her hair so it glows where it brushes past her shoulders, a careless tumble unlike the fixed sterility of everything else. He half-smiles as he steps into the room, slipping his hands into his pockets. He'd say something if he didn't hear light footsteps approaching. He pivots instead, taking up a point roughly off-centre of the room.
"Not at all," Krouse says to Hannibal's polite inquiry, even though he can't actually speak for Clarke. She'll make a point of objecting if she disagrees, although he can't see why she would. They hadn't exactly set a time.
Hannibal doesn't seem impressed by the kitchen, but Krouse supposes he wouldn't be. It's a decent house, but a considerable step down from his. He glances at Clarke, wondering what she's making of all of this from the opposite end of the spectrum.
"I can do the dishes," he volunteers, maybe a hair too quickly. "I don't mind. And I appreciate it, on both counts." He shifts his weight between his feet, bolstering his smile confidently. "I think we should be able to work out a good set up here between the three of us. There'll be some adjustments, of course - but if I have any habits that tick either of you off, let me know, and I'm sure we can get through this without anyone strangling each other over laundry."
no subject
Some amount of tension melts off her shoulders immediately, and Clarke has an almost-smile for him in turn — a rueful well, here we go again uptick of the mouth. But over his shoulder looms the approaching shadow of Hannibal Lector, whose presence still tugs at her hackles like marionette strings she must remind herself to sever; he's never harmed her, and does not deserve the visceral drop in her stomach every time the two of them come face to face. Shoulders roll back, but mouth unlatches to offer idle assurances — only for Krouse to beat her to the punch. There is no objection, and Clarke has to acknowledge that there were way worse households she could have been sorted into. At least these two weren't complete strangers.
Hannibal's already breezed past her, an odd cut out of kitchen elegance against a backdrop of peel-and-stick counter linoleum. There's dedication to a craft, and then there's obsession. It feels over the top that out of what little they could carry through the portal to this new planet, he had chosen knives. But then Clarke has to consider — if she'd ever been given the opportunity to drop into any given situation with exactly what she deemed necessary, would she still have as many moments to regret? And it's not like there are any less than five scalpels wrapped in a hand towel in her bag upstairs. For a long moment, she simply watches him organizing his blades, and wonders if the provided plastic cutting boards neatly slotted behind the toaster will be able to withstand them. What are they talking about right now? Meals? No, apparently they're volunteering for chores.
"I'll just do the laundry."
This was not an task taught on board the Ark in any depth, but she's wrangled with enough industrial washing machines that not everything they own would be better off burned and re-bought. She could also put her best foot forward in the name of preventing any strangling, for the mission. And speaking of tasks, and chores, and missions, and little boxes to check off...
"Did either of you see this yet?"
With a slight sidestep to peel herself away from it, the digital calendar comes into better view for the room at large; a shining white background with crisp black lines in rectangular wedges to denote the days in the upcoming month. They're labeled up top in bold text, Sunday - Saturday style, with color coded objectives already stretching across the span of the week. There's a crimson line denoting Hannibal's work schedule, and lighter shades of red and pink that map out identical commitments to school hours. On todays date, there are a smattering of smaller prompts they'll need to tap on to fully expand, personalized honey-do's that Clarke has not fully explored yet.
And below it all, an empty space waiting to begin tallying up accomplishments.
no subject
This is not his home nor will it ever be, but it's his living space for now and they're living with him. No space to relax, or space to take off his person suit. For however long that they're here, Hannibal has to alter his routine. He wouldn't trust either of them to set the table for meals, so their offers on their own tasks is acceptable to him. Krouse is eager compared to Clarke, who holds herself stiffly too often. He wonders how much the two of them have shared about their experiences with him, if at all.
"I did," he's languid in his steps as he sidles up next to Clarke, not too close, but close enough. He's watching for Krouse's reaction, "but this is unlike the labyrinth or the toys. Will either of you be attending school?"
no subject
He doubts that's most of Clarke's apprehension, though. She's more pragmatic than that. She wants to know if this is someone she can rely on in a tight spot, and that's something that's hard to trust based on secondhand feedback.
They'll figure it out. He takes a step after Hannibal, eyes trained on Clarke, his smile quirking up higher as he gives her a slight nod. He can't reassure her completely with that little, but it's a start. Only then does he look at the calendar, scanning it from top to bottom, and his eyebrows rise higher as he huffs a short laugh.
"I promise you won't have to pick up after us," he says, just short of wry. He'd be more insulted by the question if he didn't have to acknowledge that plenty of people their age don't, in fact, know how to keep their rooms clean. "And I'll go. I'd hate to have the robotic truancy police showing up on our doorstep."
Saturday Matinée
His hoodie is crumpled in the backseat for the sake of the sweltering summer heat, leaving his scars bare below the sleeve of his black t-shirt. The newest are the ones he asked Amy to leave, a pale web splayed over his dark tan. He isn't paying any attention to them. He was barely paying attention to the drive on the way over, however fixed his eyes were on the road ahead.
After all his talking up movie theatres, of course he had to mention the one here to Clarke. It'd be weirder if he hadn't, and this entire situation is weird enough as it is.
So here they are, on a pointedly non-weird outing, for the sake of giving Clarke a taste of the better parts of Earth before it consumed itself in nuclear fire. Why would there be any pressure involved in that?
Krouse flips the keys between his fingers as he pockets them, blowing his bangs out of his eyes before he turns to face Clarke with a ready smile. He drums the fingers of his other hand on the steering wheel as he nods past her at the theatre.
"Are you ready to be swept away by the magic of cinema?" He asks, lightly, with nervous tension clinging to the corners of his eyes.
no subject
I'd have to think on that one. What would you pick?
A movie theatre. Mostly for the popcorn, obviously.
Clarke had grown up in the middle of an outdated piece of technology that was once been the technical wonder and embodiment of man-kind's dedication to exploring the unknown. They'd had photo realistic holograms on the Ark, and high definition copies of the little bits of televised media from the past the original Grounders had chosen to bring with them on their venture to explore space. The bits that'd survived the apocalypse below, a soccer match from 2001 surviving until 2159 in the legacy of a little girl's fond memories of her father. But mostly the screens on board the spacecraft had been utilized for practical things; educational things, ship-wide broadcasts — the slight hum of a television screen clicking on indicating she was about to be mildly bored or intently alert. On Earth, TV's had been a relic, something they'd only found in the pits of Mount Weather or the depths of Becca's Lab. On the Serena Eterna... Well, there'd been the mounted screen on the pool deck, and Clarke has a very fond memory of watching the ridiculous films that the Erda'd deigned to provide for them (Killer Klowns From Outer Space, Mystery Science Theatre 3000, etc) alongside her best friend. But more vivid memories of the replays of the Battle Royale overlaid with slapstick comedic sound effects. It'd been humiliating, and infuriation all at the same time.
All of this to say, by now she is no stranger to movies. They're fine and they're fun, and she knows on principle what a movie theatre is, but had never felt the urge to visit one in person until Krouse's nostalgia had made them seem desirable. This entire venture into Moorecroft would have delighted her younger self once upon a time, a chance to see how humanity had lived before her time and all the little things they'd enjoyed. And while a familiar sense of doom and dangerous mystery still feels like it's swinging over their heads like a pendulum with improper fastenings, there is still a sliver of that little girl alive in her chest. Who perks up and immediately says let's go when Krouse had mentioned his findings.
This has absolutely nothing to do with preventative safety. Or the mission. There's no highlighted go see a movie on the digital calendar hanging by their fridge. It's just two people piling into a red beater of a car with finicky AC in the high heat of summer, and for a solid, silent portion of the drive Clarke has to wonder if she ought to feel guilty about this. Surely there's something else they could be doing that, you know, would actually help their situation. Some stone to overturn, some lead to follow, some more Moorecroft residents they could corner and interrogate, some computer to be found again... Krouse taking up the position of driver just leaves her with the time and space to allow her mind to wander, which is seldom a good thing. Eyes too, which really just drives home the fact she'd forgotten to ever check those stitches she gave him in the labyrinth. A lot has happened since, but from an extended glance at his forearm, she can at least tell they healed nicely. Or, as nicely as could be expected from the circumstances.
Scars for scars, today — due to the heat, and the (only novelty that remains about interdimensional kidnapping) vast array of brand new clothes, all for free, and the task of blending in — Clarke is dressed in black denim shorts, and a short grey t-shirt with a small graphic over her heart that denotes I NEED SPACE. It is quite possibly the first time she's shirked the long sleeved athletic shirts and black leggings look, and twin burn scars reside on underside of her left forearm and the back of her right calf. They are long healed, but still moderately sleek and glossy, a faint sheen of purple. On her right wrist, something a little more fresh: jagged lines of scar tissue from sharp teeth intent to consume her, and her own furious resolve to rip herself out of murderous jaws. There'd been no needle and thread available in the aftermath, these had mostly healed on their own. The bite had still been relatively fresh when she'd arrived to Etraya, but at least seems to not have left any lasting nerve damage behind; Clarke occasionally tippy-taps her fingers along the edge of the open passenger window with ease.
Objectively, parking lots are weird. They're just expansive grafts of asphalt edged by the greenery of the natural world. The one outside the movie theatre is worn from a few years of use, but as pristine and intact as everything else around them. They park, Krouse puts the car in park, pockets the keys and jerks his chin towards the building beyond her. The theatre doesn't look like much, an industrial slab of square concrete a few stories high. The entrance is dotted with a few splashed posters advertising what's currently playing, and a few lightbulbs are out around the marquee that announces this place as Moore Theatre.
"I'm ready for the magic of cinema to give it it's best shot. We're going to get popcorn, right?" And she hooks her fingers into the interior release, popping open the door in the same move as she undoes her seatbelt.
no subject
It doesn't help the knot in his stomach or the hot mouthful of guilt that comes with it.
Anyone with eyes knows Clarke is attractive. Bright blue eyes, sunshine blonde hair, the decisive little dimple of her chin. He's not noticing anything new, and he's never been stupid about pretty girls. It's her mind that's interesting, not her looks.
And he's over all of that. He pushed it out of sight and out of mind a long time ago. There were more important things to care about, and he was fine with it. He's always been fine with it. Other guys might get led around by their hormones, but he's always half-believed that's just an excuse for bad behaviour.
So he shouldn't be thinking about her legs in those shorts, and if he has - if he has, he shouldn't put any weight on it. He's human. He's eighteen. He hasn't seen any girls in shorts for almost a year. Absolutely none of those facts make him feel less like a fucking creep for seeing the glossy stretch of her scars and wondering -
It's his problem, not hers. He's going to keep it that way. By the time he gets out of the car with his hoodie draped over his arm, squinting against the light, he's shoved it to the back of his mind where it belongs.
"Popcorn, candy, novelty cups, the whole enchilada." He smiles at her over the top of the car. "We're doing this right."
He circles around the car to her side with a bounce in his step he'll put down to enthusiasm, not nerves. Once they're in the theatre, there'll be plenty to hold his attention.
"And there's air conditioning that presumably works," he adds, wryly, picking at the hem of his t-shirt to temporarily unstick it from the small of his back. "One of the highlights of the movie going experience. Let's get inside, shall we?"