❝ hey, it's carley, right ? ❞ there is assured hesitation in her tone, a purpose to her presence in front of the other. a softness in her voice that doesn't necessarily shine in eyes beneath furrowed brows. the moonlight spilling in from the open doors provides just enough illumination inside of the train car to christa to make it from one end to the other without falling flat on her face. ❝ it's obvious there was some . . . tension in your group when we first met ⸺ i don't want an explanation, you're entitled to keep whatever the hell happened to yourselves, but i need to know one thing, ❞ she doesn't mean to sound so accusatory, not really, but christa had more than just herself and omid to be looking out for now, and with his leg the way that it was ― she couldn't risk dragging them into the middle of what could be the massive implosion of this group; the frays of which already seemed to be a stone's throw away from that becoming reality. ❝ should omid and i be worried that you're all gonna turn on one another in the middle of the night ? because if the answer is anything but a definitive no, i think we should go our separate ways. ❞

starter call. @000warning's carley.

there are things outside of his reach, of his control. warren is not death, but only the great entity's apprentice. warren is not all knowing, nor all seeing, but he has been made privy to many things those lower than him would never get to know. how the world truly works, for example. how death may consume all, but the paths that come after death were chosen by those who would move on from it. staring upon the house on the hill, warren places his hands behind his back - watching. waiting. the kids play, they come home when the porch light shines across the dark yard, and the family is happy. for now. when warren enters hill house, the night encompassing the entirety of the structure, he finds mother crain up and walking while the rest of her family sleeps. warren follows, silent. she could see him if she wanted to, but for now, he wanders along with her through the house, unable to interfere, but curious as to what she would do as she's further and further possessed by the house. @000warning.

there's always a way to renegotiate debt. (from river)

(‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎🥀 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎)‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎when her eyes dance over @000warning,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎she can't help the grin that crosses over baby pink stained lips.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎❝ oh! ❞ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎old ways died silently long ago,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎replaced now with an endless string of questions that stir in her chest,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎&‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎not in a bad way.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎it's invigorating,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎and feeds the emptiness that was born out of the monotony of her old life.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎there was always something more waiting for her,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎she just needed the right time.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎❝ i have a feeling that negotiate means something different to you,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎don't it? ❞ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎when she raises her brow,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎she feels it,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎smile pulled now so wide that the warmth that always sits deep within her chest is shaking alive once more.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎river's ways are different than the rules of space that was taught to her by the doctor.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎be smart,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎be peaceful,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎be rational:‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎only after all resources were exhausted could they do...‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎aggressive negotiations.

❝ we could always leave,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎you know that right? ❞ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎but there's a glint in her eye,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎and a way of her tone,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎playful‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎&‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎joking as her spine straightens and her toes start to itch.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎❝ what do you have in mind? ❞

( sc. ) she is never alone, and yet always lonely. the sounds of her children fade into a distant hum of sound, her migraines becoming progressively worse as days come to pass. colour desaturates, her view of the world becoming a dreary black and white as she stands still and silent in the foyer of hill house. it's dark. no light shines in the middle of the night, and olivia is not alone. she stares at the doors, once opening with ease, welcoming her in - now, they're heavy, and they refuse to budge. she doesn't blink as she starts to move towards them, something not altogether figment urging her forward.

run, it whispers in her head, faint and fractured. her hand rises, the sleeve of her robe brushing her hip as she reaches for the door, her fingertips grazing the wood, and yet- nothing. olivia's head tilts, the haze in her eyes clearing as she blinked rapidly, startling backwards one step, two . . . the house is suffocating her, and when she opens her mouth to breathe - she can't. liv gasps, turning to stumble back up the stairs to her bedroom, where she can wake hugh to help her breathe

gasps stifles in her throat as she comes face to face with a mirror image, her own eyes staring back at her, and the shadows of the house shifts. decay creeps across the floor, the wall - her head turns, gaze drifting over years of abandonment to the vines that grow wild over the windows. she inhales. " is this, " she starts, voice quiet and hoarse from disuse as she spins back to @000warning, her other self. " - is this . . . a dream ? "

( sc. ) new york is exactly as she remembers it, and nothing like she's used to. los angeles had been her home for so long, the city of her reinvention, when she truly came alive. but it's easier to get lost here, in the crowds of people, the buildings growing taller with every new addition, so loud it drowned out the rest of the world. it's easy here. it's comfortable. sometimes, she misses la. she misses the glitz and the glam. but she's content, for now, to simply be. with her husband, and her lover, and her lover's husband - it's not conventional. but it doesn't have to be. she's learning, albeit slowly. " what about the stage ? " she suggests silkily, looking up from the morning papers strewn across their bed as she lounges in the sun. her nose wrinkles, dark eyes rising to meet that of @000warning with a coy smirk. " it's no silver screen, of course - but beggars can't be choosers after all. " she's not the actress between the two of them. celia has the accolades to prove that in spades. evelyn can hold her own, she has talent, sure. but she's made for film reels, not broadway. god, she must be desperate.