Staying awake all day really isn't an issue for you. It's not like you really follow a schedule: the sun can't hurt you down in the skeleton's hives, and it's not like you've got any sort of fancy timekeeping thingies down there, to tell you when you ought to be up and when you ought to be done.
(Mardie gave you a clamshell to keep track of the time, but you don't see the point: only time you ever use it is when she messages you, anyway.)
The only time you need to pay attention to like, hours is when you're out delivering, 'cause sometimes you need shit you can't harvest from the dead, like glue and pencils and sparkledust for your projects, and you know an olive who'll trade you that shit in exchange for work. You keep a suncloak you found for times like that, but you hate doing it, on account of the fact the stuff she wants you to do is always boring as fuck.
It's not even like you're the one doing anything. All you ever do is stand there, with your suncloak up and the mailbag strapped onto your back, and wait while the ghosts you keep leashed take all the little packages to the right spots. Occasionally, you gotta whack a lusus or two that gets snooty with you, but otherwise, it's just standing around for an hour or two, and then bringing the empty bag back to the olive lady. She bitches whenever you show up, about shit like responsibility and reliability, but she still trades: she's boring and slow, and the route that only takes you an hour or two can last her the entire night.
You were supposed to be doing that today, and you know skipping means you're gonna get an earful the next time you do show up. But Mardie asked you for a favor, and that never, ever happens: usually, she's the one giving you things, and then hemming and hawwing when you try to give her anything else back. Helping her is way more important than getting new pencils.
And, like, it's already turning out to be way more fucking fun.
"Hinnom," Mardie says, her voice funny, "I don't ask as a discourtesy, but -- are we there yet?"
"Almost, boo," you call, sing-song, over your shoulder. "Chillax!"
It was a huge fucking hassle to convince Mardie to get down in the sewers, but she hadn't known how to get to the coordinates she'd been given, and like fuck you're going over the roads. The streets are filled with rumblecarts and giant fucking lusii, and while you're not sure which is more terrifying, you are sure you don't want to fuck with either.
You prefer the sewers. As long as you keep out of the inner city areas, there's no ghouls or walking dead, and it's all straight shoots and narrow paths: none of the clutter or the people or the noise of the streets above, just a grid that'll take you wherever you need to go, and coordinates on the walls to let you know where you were.
The destination Mardie wanted isn't that far from the big old hivestem she lives in, but it's taken forever to walk with Mardie clinging to your shoulder. The numbers on the wall have been steadily climbing higher, though, and there's an ancient climbing device up ahead, mounted to the stone wall. There's spackles of light coming out of the grate way, high above, and.. hmm.
The numbers closest to you declare, in big, white blocks: 612314. It's not quite right, but hell, it's close enough. "We're here," you trill. "Gimme a sec and lemme send one of my ghouls up to scope, 'kay?"
no subject
(Mardie gave you a clamshell to keep track of the time, but you don't see the point: only time you ever use it is when she messages you, anyway.)
The only time you need to pay attention to like, hours is when you're out delivering, 'cause sometimes you need shit you can't harvest from the dead, like glue and pencils and sparkledust for your projects, and you know an olive who'll trade you that shit in exchange for work. You keep a suncloak you found for times like that, but you hate doing it, on account of the fact the stuff she wants you to do is always boring as fuck.
It's not even like you're the one doing anything. All you ever do is stand there, with your suncloak up and the mailbag strapped onto your back, and wait while the ghosts you keep leashed take all the little packages to the right spots. Occasionally, you gotta whack a lusus or two that gets snooty with you, but otherwise, it's just standing around for an hour or two, and then bringing the empty bag back to the olive lady. She bitches whenever you show up, about shit like responsibility and reliability, but she still trades: she's boring and slow, and the route that only takes you an hour or two can last her the entire night.
You were supposed to be doing that today, and you know skipping means you're gonna get an earful the next time you do show up. But Mardie asked you for a favor, and that never, ever happens: usually, she's the one giving you things, and then hemming and hawwing when you try to give her anything else back. Helping her is way more important than getting new pencils.
And, like, it's already turning out to be way more fucking fun.
"Hinnom," Mardie says, her voice funny, "I don't ask as a discourtesy, but -- are we there yet?"
"Almost, boo," you call, sing-song, over your shoulder. "Chillax!"
It was a huge fucking hassle to convince Mardie to get down in the sewers, but she hadn't known how to get to the coordinates she'd been given, and like fuck you're going over the roads. The streets are filled with rumblecarts and giant fucking lusii, and while you're not sure which is more terrifying, you are sure you don't want to fuck with either.
You prefer the sewers. As long as you keep out of the inner city areas, there's no ghouls or walking dead, and it's all straight shoots and narrow paths: none of the clutter or the people or the noise of the streets above, just a grid that'll take you wherever you need to go, and coordinates on the walls to let you know where you were.
The destination Mardie wanted isn't that far from the big old hivestem she lives in, but it's taken forever to walk with Mardie clinging to your shoulder. The numbers on the wall have been steadily climbing higher, though, and there's an ancient climbing device up ahead, mounted to the stone wall. There's spackles of light coming out of the grate way, high above, and.. hmm.
The numbers closest to you declare, in big, white blocks: 612314. It's not quite right, but hell, it's close enough. "We're here," you trill. "Gimme a sec and lemme send one of my ghouls up to scope, 'kay?"