aunamee ❱❱ anomie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marcato) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
diademlogs2026-02-04 04:15 pm
marcato) wrote in diademlogs2026-02-04 04:15 pm
february catchall | open
Who: Aunamee and you
Where: Panorama and the fringes
When: Throughout the month!
What: Aunamee is coping with his recent death by watching terrible ghost weddings, crashing his car, and pretending his god still loves him.
Warnings: Sadism, talk of death, more to come (probably)
[He's been here for eight hours.
No. He's been here for eight hours today. The cumulative hours are far greater -- perhaps closer to thirty at this point, not including the six hour drive in each direction. As tempted as he's been to sleep in his car and spare himself the commute, there are certain lines he won't cross, lines that make him look too --
(desperate)
-- imprecise, and so he forces himself to go home now and again. To shower. To sleep in a place with clean sheets.
Otherwise, he watches. Again. And again.
And again.
a. Sometimes, Aunamee observes from the third row with perfect posture, periodically glancing down at the notebook in his lap. He's counting down to something, his white-gloved fingers twitching in a regular rhythm. When the bride throws her champagne glass at 4:32 PM, he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he writes down the time.
b. Other times, you can find him weaving around the specters, sometimes silent, sometimes speaking aloud, predicting calamities with the calm voice of a priest. "You will remove the knife from your bouquet after he calls you a whore," he tells the maid of honor. "You will stop breathing ten minutes from now," he tells the groom. They don't hear him. He doesn't need them to.
c. Sometimes, late in the day, he takes a slice of wedding cake and eats it with a fork while the groom bleeds out six feet away.
d. One day, on the way back to his motel, he falls asleep at the wheel, just enough for the car to drift across the center line, tires catching gravel before he jerks awake with a sharp inhale and overcorrects. Does he hit your car? Do you swerve out of the way? Or do you watch his car go still after it collides with a telephone pole?]
[You see him in a bar, nursing a clear liquid that might be gin or might be water. You see him near the temp worker pickup spots in the Pavilion, where people gather at dawn hoping for day labor. You see him bruised outside of a gambling den after winning one too many poker games, gingerly smoking a cigarette.
He's always wearing white, and he always looks -- not calm, exactly, but emptied out, a husk of a man whose serenity is contingent on maintaining what little control he has.
And right now, he's in control.]
Hello.
[He turns on a smile. It's practiced, this smile, but all the practice in the world can't make his eyes look alive.
He leans forward, conversational. Conspiratorial. Up close, his eyes look as tired as they are empty, his sleeplessness concealed with foundation that doesn't quite match his skin.]
Tell me something true.
[ooc: Aunamee has an enchanted glove that can detect lies, and he'll be using it in this thread! It will only detect intentional lies, however, so if your character thinks something is true, it won't catch it.]
[Got something else in mind? Give me a ping at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
dendrite or send a PM and we'll work something out! ]
Where: Panorama and the fringes
When: Throughout the month!
What: Aunamee is coping with his recent death by watching terrible ghost weddings, crashing his car, and pretending his god still loves him.
Warnings: Sadism, talk of death, more to come (probably)
the wedding
[He's been here for eight hours.
No. He's been here for eight hours today. The cumulative hours are far greater -- perhaps closer to thirty at this point, not including the six hour drive in each direction. As tempted as he's been to sleep in his car and spare himself the commute, there are certain lines he won't cross, lines that make him look too --
(desperate)
-- imprecise, and so he forces himself to go home now and again. To shower. To sleep in a place with clean sheets.
Otherwise, he watches. Again. And again.
And again.
a. Sometimes, Aunamee observes from the third row with perfect posture, periodically glancing down at the notebook in his lap. He's counting down to something, his white-gloved fingers twitching in a regular rhythm. When the bride throws her champagne glass at 4:32 PM, he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he writes down the time.
b. Other times, you can find him weaving around the specters, sometimes silent, sometimes speaking aloud, predicting calamities with the calm voice of a priest. "You will remove the knife from your bouquet after he calls you a whore," he tells the maid of honor. "You will stop breathing ten minutes from now," he tells the groom. They don't hear him. He doesn't need them to.
c. Sometimes, late in the day, he takes a slice of wedding cake and eats it with a fork while the groom bleeds out six feet away.
d. One day, on the way back to his motel, he falls asleep at the wheel, just enough for the car to drift across the center line, tires catching gravel before he jerks awake with a sharp inhale and overcorrects. Does he hit your car? Do you swerve out of the way? Or do you watch his car go still after it collides with a telephone pole?]
the truth
[You see him in a bar, nursing a clear liquid that might be gin or might be water. You see him near the temp worker pickup spots in the Pavilion, where people gather at dawn hoping for day labor. You see him bruised outside of a gambling den after winning one too many poker games, gingerly smoking a cigarette.
He's always wearing white, and he always looks -- not calm, exactly, but emptied out, a husk of a man whose serenity is contingent on maintaining what little control he has.
And right now, he's in control.]
Hello.
[He turns on a smile. It's practiced, this smile, but all the practice in the world can't make his eyes look alive.
He leans forward, conversational. Conspiratorial. Up close, his eyes look as tired as they are empty, his sleeplessness concealed with foundation that doesn't quite match his skin.]
Tell me something true.
[ooc: Aunamee has an enchanted glove that can detect lies, and he'll be using it in this thread! It will only detect intentional lies, however, so if your character thinks something is true, it won't catch it.]
wildcard
[Got something else in mind? Give me a ping at
no subject
The spark.
He offers it forward, lighting Cid's cigarillo with the ease of someone who's lit thousands before. The lighter disappears into his pocket just as smoothly.]
I don't mind dealing with angry men.
[The bruises along his jaw radiate a quiet, predictable heat. He likes predictability.]
"The house always wins." Do they say that where you come from?
no subject
When he exhales, he blows the smoke away from his new friend. ] Seems like they mind dealing with you.
[ A pause. ] Out? [ He wiggles the cigarillo. He's offering. Cid thinks he might have one left in his pockets somewhere, and he's all for pretending that it's no trouble to part with it.
He wasn't joking when he said the man looked like he'd been through it, and Cid is nothing if not a sucker for a soul at the end of their rope. It wouldn't be the first time that he's made a mistake. ]
That one's true everywhere, I think. Haven't met anyone yet who's been dealt a good hand... and you don't strike me as someone who thinks that their luck's about to change. You alright?
no subject
No thank you.
[But his cigarette is starting to run out, and so he stubs out the remnants against the nearby wall. He'll light another one later, he tells himself, if his headache gets worse.]
As for my luck, dear stranger, I'm afraid I need to correct you. Tonight, I was too lucky. The house removed me for the sake of their margins, an action I can hardly blame them for taking.
[He flicks his cigarette into the trash.]
Wouldn't you do the same thing? In their position.