into each life some rain must fall.

[luft]

caught in the rain
it started out quietly, and then, quite suddenly, you're caught in a storm. time to find cover. nothing much to do but to wait it out.

scenarios listed below for those who want 'em.

i. WHERE;
001 PLAYGROUND - well, you can try to hide under the slide or maybe in the jungle gym... at least you're some place fun?
002 PARK - always happens, caught outside trying to take advantage of the weather... and it ends up pulling a fast one on you.
003 STORE FRONT - better hope they have an awning you can take advantage of.
004 THE BEACH - not exactly the best place to be during a rainstorm, however it is possible to get caught in a sudden storm.
005 WILD CARD - anyway you want it.

ii. HOW;
001 TREE - not the best cover, but it'll have to do, stay close to the roots and you won't get too wet.
002 UMBRELLA - most conventional... kinda boring. But it works.
003 NEWSPAPER - not permanent, but it'll have to do. good luck.
004 BAG - well... y'gotta do what you gotta do.
005 NONE - you know what. you're a rebel. you don't need cover. screw convention.
006 WILD CARD - that's the way you need it.

iii. WHY;
001 REJECTED - welp. rejection sucks. and no one will see you crying in the rain.
002 WAITING - for the bus? for someone else? for some revelation? what are you waiting for.
003 MELANCHOLY - sometimes the best place to feel a bit down is out in the rain.
004 HAPPINESS - is everything going your way? are you singing a refrain while walking down the lane? just singin. singin' in the rain.
005 ANGER - WELL YOU KNOW WHAT. SCREW YOU TOO RAIN.
006 WILD CARD - anyway you want it.

>> POST with your character
>> TAG others, use rng if you need to, or just make up your own scenario if you want!
>> HAVE FUN.

Comments

ian reed | luther

[erred]

[safely]

[ The rain comes down hard. Fat droplets splash into the tiny puddles along the sidewalk, filling in the cracks between the concrete and cobblestones. There's not a lot of it, but it's enough to be annoying — her cardigan's all wool, the kind that doesn't let the water in by virtue of absorbing it all. She'll probably smell like wet dog by the time she comes home.

Her therapist tells her to do one thing that surprises her, every single day. (Judith's not sure about that. Just moving to London is a big deal, but that's kind of the nice part about it. It's liberating, being in a city so big, where nobody follows current events that occur on the other side of the ocean.) Her yellow umbrella is a little too small to cover both herself and Ian, but it matches the print of flowers along the side of her red gumboots as she falls into step.

Her smile is a little nervous. ]

You looked like you needed it.

[erred]

[ There's something rare about gestures of kindness in the city, insomuch as policework gives you over to more of the worst of human behavior, and considerate acts tend to be restricted to things like a bus stopping for a runner once every ten years or so. Not that Ian would complain — the city is what it is, and maybe it'd be nice for people to pay more attention to each other than to their mobiles, but it's hardly the worst thing in the world.

He forgets his umbrella at home despite the forecast (John teases him about it — weren't you talking about monsoon season last week, mate, and yes, he had, an off-hand comment made after a weird special on TV the night before). It's not so bad when he leaves the station in the afternoon, but almost as soon as he thinks to himself that he'll get home without getting completely drenched, the darker clouds move in and the cats and dogs start coming down. He spends the next block or so trying to keep to the awnings that stick out over the street, but gives it up as a lost cause soon enough, resigning himself to popping the collar on his coat and hunching up his shoulders.

It takes him a moment to notice that he's got company, his gaze first alighting on the rain boots walking in step next to him before darting up to catch Judith's eye, marked surprise in his expression. (Not a native, by the sound of it.) ]

'S very kind of you, [ he manages, bobbing his head with a slight smile. ] Can't say it's not a relief; bloody long day.

[ A beat, and then: ] Nice boots.

[safely]

I know the feeling. [ It's a polite kind of statement, but there's a kernel of earnestness in it. She lifts her elbow up a little higher, considering he's taller than she is, and the last thing Judith wants to do is poke out a stranger's eye in her first month in the UK.

Her cheeks turn pink at the comment about her boots — they're colorful, and she kind of likes that, how people dress in the dreary city weather around here. There's a little dip in the sidewalk and her heel splashes into the tiny puddle as she steps, the pattern on her ankle looking comedically big through the droplet of water before it falls away. ]

Thanks. I thought they looked— cheerful? I don't know. I was kind of hoping for good weather.

[erred]

Gumboots don't usually go with good weather, [ Ian notes, not unkindly, before continuing on, ] Not a bad way of warding off the grey, though, if y' have to. Yellow's— a good color.

[ He seems to realize it's a lame sort of end to the thought if the brief twist to his expression is any indication (there's no real way of saving it, is there), so he moves on, pulling one of his hands from his pockets to offer it to her in introduction. (It's a jerky kind of gesture — his hand, like the rest of him, is wet with rainwater, and he pauses to try to dry it off on the front of his coat but there's not much point in that, either, so—) ]

Ian.

[ Beat. ]

Reed.

[safely]

You think?

[ She looks pleased at that, however it's given. Her mouth purses into a small 'o' of surprise, like it hadn't occured to her to go through all that, those beginning pleasantries. Her face flushes again and she stops walking, makes sure the wool of her glove isn't too soaked (much like the attention to his own hand, almost mimicing the gesture) before taking his palm in hers. ]

Judith Heins. I'm, kind of new here— you can probably tell by the— [ She mimes a motion with her hand, fist opening near her mouth with her fingers splayed. Something to do with verbalizing, at any rate. ] —accent.

[erred]

I'd go with the boots. Accents don't really change unless you've been around for years; new boots might just be new but— most of the time they're pretty hardy. [ A shrug, then, as he wrinkles his nose. ] Then again, I might just be fishing. It's nice t' meet you, Judith. Not every day someone offers t' share their umbrella.

[ He hesitates a beat before starting to walk again, making a sort of after you gesture despite the fact that they have to walk relatively in sync. ]

So, um. How long've you been in the city?

[safely]

[ She almost says something like my therapist encourages me to do new things and take myself by surprise, but it seems like a bad first impression to make. Not only because it implies that she needs a therapist, but also because it implies that she's not in her element around strangers, and Judith's not sure anyone likes feeling like a guinea pig.

She laughs, though, quietly and under her breath. Politeness for polite's sake, but it's at least an effort. ]

A little under a month? You know— fresh start? Just me and a cat I named Bert.

[erred]

[ It's an odd kind of conversation, punctuated by awkward beats and second thoughts, though they never seem to actually stifle the train of thought. He almost remarks that his first wife had had a cat, but that's the kind of statement that demands the question first of how many (which, in turn, suggests — by typical societal standards — that something must be wrong) and the subject of divorce isn't one you generally bring up to a stranger. Neither is the kind of thing he's particularly keen on fording at the moment. ]

Not a bad place t' pick for a fresh start, [ he nods. As much as his work can point evidence towards the contrary, he does love London, for whatever it's worth. ]

Lived here my whole life, hasn't done me wrong, yet. Y' mind if I ask whereabouts you're going? Don't want to get you too off-track or anything.

[safely]

Oh, I— [ She looks embarrassed again, her gaze dipping down to her feet (another inward wince; the boots, all that color) before they meet his again. ] —it's just down this street, then another right. It's not far.

[ Another pause. Judith stops at the curb, her elbow still raised in a slightly strange angle to accompany both of their heights. Her original plan had been to just... keep him company until he'd gotten to his destination, like maybe he wouldn't ask her that and she'd just walk all the way back home even if she'd passed her exit earlier. Now that the question's been asked, though, it feels a little weird to admit her plan out loud. (How desperate do you have to be for company, right?) ]

I can run the rest of the way, [ she decides, turning her hand so she can offer him the plastic handle, a little slippery from the rain. ] You should take it.

[erred]

[ Much like her initial act of sharing her umbrella with him in the first place, it's not the kind of gesture that Ian's expecting. As good with a poker face as he can be under the correct circumstances, he's generally shit about it when it comes to the day-to-day, at least if the way his expression changes is anything to go by. He doesn't immediately reach out, instead coming to a stop on the pavement. (Traffic, as ever, simply parts around them.) ]

Are you sure? [ It's not a modest are you sure, the kind people use when delaying what they know to be inevitable — it's a question born out of genuine surprise, like he's amazed that anyone would offer in the first place, least of all to him. (He's a shadow on the wall, the second to John's first; whatever is extraordinary in the world, simple or not, isn't reserved for him.) ]

Look, um— [ He casts about, and for a moment it looks like it's going to be for an excuse. ] Can I give you my number, at least? Rains a lot around these parts, but I don't wanna rely on chance t' get this back to you.