rows upon rows of food, completely unguarded. in boxes, jars, cans, bags. she walks slowly up and down the aisles, staring at it all. her first instinct had been to take it all, hoard what she could while it's here. but then she'd realized there's too much for that. she'd left two dozen loaves of presliced, bagged bread on the floor in the second aisle before she'd moved on.
she winds her way to the produce and stuffs cherry tomatoes into her mouth — as many as she can fit — before gathering other fruits and vegetables that she doesn't recognize into a plastic bag and heading into further aisles.
she doesn't just need food. she needs a weapon.
the kitchen supplies aisle has a knife. she takes it off the shelf, frowning. it's not a weapon. it's a chef's tool. but she sets down the bounty of food between her feet like a soccer ball she's guarding and she test the point and the edge with her newly free hand and nods to herself. it'll do. ]
02. why don't you run?
[ the first dog that lunges at her doesn't live to regret it.
the knife may be a chef's tool, but it cuts through flesh just as well. she uses it, now, to prod at the mangy corpse. at the iron collar screwed into its neck. she sets the knife aside and begins to unscrew it, that she might discover something about its origin or its make or its function.
or maybe just because it's habit. salvaging steel from corpses.
something is wrong with these dogs. while she's lingering over it, two more emerge from the fog. mavis shifts the collar to her offhand, and withdraws her knife from the corpse. she straightens and readies to defend herself. ]
03. persistent violence
[ for a time, mavis is content to look on. she's used to being a voyeur on the lives and cultures of communities that she is not a part of. how many clan practices has she watched from the cliffs, imagining her participation but holding back?
only the tied figure's moaning draws her closer. she ignores the dark figure in favor of the handmaidens bearing the figure towards the bonfire. she tries to block them, first. stands in their path, hands shaking. but they maneuver around her as if she were a rock in a stream. she whips her head around and grabs for one of them, trying to pull them off their path, trying to make them drop their burden. ]
04. wildcard
[ feel free to hit me up protects for something else if these doesn't work, or hit mavis with a text prompt. info on the character is in her journal, but the basic pitch is "aloy from horizon zero dawn but psionics instead of corporations and climate change." ]
mavis (original)
[ mavis has never seen anything like it.
rows upon rows of food, completely unguarded. in boxes, jars, cans, bags. she walks slowly up and down the aisles, staring at it all. her first instinct had been to take it all, hoard what she could while it's here. but then she'd realized there's too much for that. she'd left two dozen loaves of presliced, bagged bread on the floor in the second aisle before she'd moved on.
she winds her way to the produce and stuffs cherry tomatoes into her mouth — as many as she can fit — before gathering other fruits and vegetables that she doesn't recognize into a plastic bag and heading into further aisles.
she doesn't just need food. she needs a weapon.
the kitchen supplies aisle has a knife. she takes it off the shelf, frowning. it's not a weapon. it's a chef's tool. but she sets down the bounty of food between her feet like a soccer ball she's guarding and she test the point and the edge with her newly free hand and nods to herself. it'll do. ]
[ the first dog that lunges at her doesn't live to regret it.
the knife may be a chef's tool, but it cuts through flesh just as well. she uses it, now, to prod at the mangy corpse. at the iron collar screwed into its neck. she sets the knife aside and begins to unscrew it, that she might discover something about its origin or its make or its function.
or maybe just because it's habit. salvaging steel from corpses.
something is wrong with these dogs. while she's lingering over it, two more emerge from the fog. mavis shifts the collar to her offhand, and withdraws her knife from the corpse. she straightens and readies to defend herself. ]
[ for a time, mavis is content to look on. she's used to being a voyeur on the lives and cultures of communities that she is not a part of. how many clan practices has she watched from the cliffs, imagining her participation but holding back?
only the tied figure's moaning draws her closer. she ignores the dark figure in favor of the handmaidens bearing the figure towards the bonfire. she tries to block them, first. stands in their path, hands shaking. but they maneuver around her as if she were a rock in a stream. she whips her head around and grabs for one of them, trying to pull them off their path, trying to make them drop their burden. ]
[ feel free to hit me up