( picture prompt meme )

[socketeer]

the picture prompt meme I — Comment with your character. II — Others will leave a picture (or two, or three...) III — Reply to them with a setting based on the picture. IV — Link to any pictures that are NSFW, please. V — Be aware that this meme will be image-heavy. Link to an image: <a href=IMAGEURL>TEXT</a> Embed image in your reply: <img src=IMAGEURL> Image width and height: <img src=IMAGEURL width=500> OR <img src=IMAGEURL height=INSERT>

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[littlemissfutility]

"Why would I put it there?" There's a muted sort of amusement in her voice. Ghosts are the least of her worries--especially considering that they don't exist. (If they did, she'd like to think she'd have seen one by now. There's more than enough dead people in the world, this one or home, to make it possible.) "I thought it was a joke."

It's nice of him to hold the door for her, not really something she expects from boys this far north. That might be unfair, considering her brother-in-law was from Michigan originally, but it's a difference she's noticed since she ended up in Gotham. Whether it's the effect of being in a big city or the whole Mason-Dixon divide or what, people aren't always as polite. She glances over at him, one brow--and the arched scar above it--quirking up. "You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"

[success_story]

He laughs thinly, sucks in a breath of air and holds it as he decides how to answer. "Ah...yes. Yeah, why not? Or maybe not ghosts, but--something, at least." Tim throws the raised eyebrow back. "You don't believe in something?"

[littlemissfutility]

"Something, yeah," she admits, after a pause. It's a harder faith than it was when she was younger and the world was easy to trust in. But even if it's misplaced, it's something she knows she needs, at this point. There has to be something larger than people, or what's the point? "But not ghosts."

[success_story]

"Well I don't know how it is in Georgia, but where I'm from, we have more than enough ghosts to go around." The glass tunnel is warm from the long afternoon, and when he reaches to open the door at the end, a cloud of AC rolls out. "But I think what's going on here is more like 'something, yeah'." He taps the sign as they go inside. "Sixth floor. Head for the elevator."

[littlemissfutility]

"Have you seen one?" Beth asks. That's a slightly more interesting possibility than him trusting blindly that they're out there. (Maybe there are ghosts here but not at home. There can't be ghosts at home--Shawn, at least, would have found them. Or Mom. There'd been plenty of time for haunting.)

She makes a tiny, pleased noise when they enter the dim, chilly hallways of Barton Hall. It's one of those hideous buildings that're probably as old as her dad was, the kinds of things people in the 1940s or 50s thought were really modern looking. Decades later, they're always kind of damp inside, like all the A/C in the world can't fix how muggy out it is, but at least they're cold. She airfares that more than anyone here knows. "Which floor?"

[success_story]

"All of them, six through fourteen. Local train style." The elevator has been updated, but the rest of the building has imbued it with thick vintage air. Feels like the ghost of something in and of itself, but Tim settles in without note, hands slipping into his pockets and hips settling against the back wall. "Here--we're just going to watch till the fourteenth.

"I don't think you see ghosts. Maybe camera aberrations. Maybe ghost effects." His mouth folds into a little smile, fingers ticking in his pocket. "Usually you just talk to them."

[littlemissfutility]

Beth rolls her eyes. "It doesn't count if it's a metaphor."

That's just grief and loneliness. Non-supernatural ghosts, the kind you haunt yourself with, are a dime a dozen. And everyone knows camera effects are probably just the camera screwing up, however fun it might be to pretend otherwise.

She watches the door as she says it, her arms swaying back and forth in tiny arcs. They start climbing up from the sixth floor--it's a slow elevator by this world's standards, even if it's newer than the building it's in, and the door chimes a moment or two before it actually opens. From what she can see, it's more concrete and tile, the fluorescent lights flicking on when she pokes her head out. "What if the something's down another hall? We might not see it."

[success_story]

"It's not a metaphor--wait, wait!" He sits up off the wall to catch her elbow and tug her back an inch. "We don't need to see anything down the halls. Just check: this is floor seven, right?"

[littlemissfutility]

"What?" she demands, confused and annoyed in equal measure. Great job, Tim, you're going to scare all the not-ghosts away. "Yeah, of course it is. Why?"

They aren't seriously just checking to make sure it's the right floor, are they? She thought he was smart.

[success_story]

"Okay. Come on."

If she leans back and lets the door shut, they glide up to eight, slowly, and the door opens again. "This is eight. Stay put." They are checking each floor on the way up. Tim lets her arm go and settles back again. "I promise there's a point.

"...Can I ask about that scar? Over your eye, I mean."

[littlemissfutility]

She rolls her eyes again--extremely mature, definitely patient--but doesn't try to leave the elevator. She doesn't at floor eight, either, just watches the doors open and another identical hallway does exactly nothing in front of them.

His question gets her attention, though. In a moment, he's no longer at the edge of her vision--the sliding doors are, as she turns her head towards him.

"Just the one over my eye?" The one under her other eye is probably the next question, but usually people bring them both up at once. And usually she says something about an accident, or she's silent until the other person drops it, but right now, that doesn't feel quite right. Maybe she's more annoyed at being bossed around than she realizes. "Some people hit pretty hard."

Better he's asking about the scars on her face, anyway, than the one just under her jaw. Most of the time, she's got a scarf fluffed out around her neck in an attempt to hide the ragged spot, but she hadn't expected company while she was doing her hair and makeup--it's only now that she remembers her mistake. Dipping her head a little lower, she glances back at the doors. "Floor nine."

[success_story]

"'Tell me about all your scars' is kind of a weird way to go into it, I think." He hums. Plus that's the one that bows when she makes faces. Plus he kind of anticipated she'd spill on the rest like most would. Beth doesn't give an inch thoughtlessly though; he feels better and better about his choice of consult. "Did you hit back? Ten coming up."

[littlemissfutility]

"You wouldn't be the first." Some people are jerks, or just kind of thoughtless. At one point, she probably would've been, too. When he asks his next question, she shrugs one shoulder like the answer doesn't matter. He'll decide for himself whether he thinks she did, and maybe that'll be the end of it. (It probably won't be. He's full of questions, and all of them point straight at her. But it's worth a shot.) "Floor ten."

[success_story]

His eyes narrow at the non-response, and he lets it hang in the air for a bit. Only for a bit, though. "...So...is that a shut-the-fuck-up?"

[littlemissfutility]

"I don't use that word." Much. She glances over at him. "So why aren't we getting out?"

[success_story]

"Shut the fudge up?" He teases. "This is just to confirm. This elevator goes to every floor. Every floor exists so far. We can agree on that, right? Just establishing observable facts. I promise it pays off. When we get to the fourteenth--mm."

Tim cuts off when they reach the eleventh floor and a pair of exhausted, surly counselor-teachers slide in with them. He scoots closer to Beth, shoots her a closed-mouth look. Glances out the door. Floor eleven. The new riders are going up to thirteen, and the quiet that they brought in gives Tim a chance to look and think. He nudges Beth when the doors opens on Floor Twelve and no one gets out, breathes a quiet "Thirteen" when that floor arrives and the counselors exit. He only takes a few inches of space back as the doors close again. "So--is it Jesus that keeps you from swearing or believing in ghosts? I'm just--making guesses here."

[littlemissfutility]

It's a stupid joke on his part, and still not something she'd say--shut the hell up, it's really not that hard--but she doesn't bother answering. He's just being a dick. She's not encouraging that. And then the counselors show up, and she's definitely not saying anything in front of them. Until he demands to know whether she's the kind of Christian who says gosh and shoot, she's silent, neither looking at him nor ignoring him.

"Yeah, you are." And you're standing too close. Either way, she's not taking the bait that easily. She glances up at the number 13 as they climb toward the top floor. "It could be on the thirteenth floor. That's the only place we've seen people."

The fourteenth floor looks exactly the same as all the others to her--wait. No, it doesn't. There's a little puddle of something red (maybe blood, maybe not, she can't smell it from here) at the edge of the visible corridor. Beth glances over at Tim. "Can we get off this time?"