startercall | @oerginals​ | Jié & Mogie 

Growing up in Quebec means Jié has a certain tolerance for the cold. Not for them is the endless grumbling and shivering of their Hangzhou born and bread mother. Every winter Jié would don their snow trousers and point out weird looking icicles to their friends. No, Jié is perfectly used to the cold-but even they can admit that, right now, shivering their ass off in an abandoned campsite, ,they’d rather be anywhere else.     

“Elias doesn’t pay us nearly enough for this,” they grumble to Mogie, fumbling with the spirit box in glove covered hands. “We’d just better hope it’s not a hantu or we’re fucked.” Which, knowing their luck, means it absolutely will be a hantu, or at least one of the ghosts that makes their surroundings colder. Not that there’s any way to tell with the snow swirling around them and the wind pulling the tents almost out of their pegs.

Working the spirit box with gloves on is going nowhere, so with some reluctance Jié uses their teeth to pull of one glove, flinching at the feeling of their bare fingers in the frigid night air. Still, at least they can actually turn the damn thing on now. 

“Can anyone hear me?” they ask, trying to annunciate around chattering teeth, “can you make yourself known to us?” and then in a softer aside to Mogie: “and make it quick so we can fuck off, ideally.”