[OOC] Lost Carnival Contact

[control_freak]

✆CHANNEL FREQUENCY: 206.18999
DESCRIPTION: If Foster hasn't lost his walkie-talkie, he'll answer you! If he has........ uh. Well. It wouldn't be the first time.

✉MAIL BOX LOCATION: There's no mailbox???
DESCRIPTION: Foster never checks his mail, assumes he won't get any, and is automatically unhappy to receive any on the rare occasion such a thing might actually happen. But you're welcome to leave it on his doorstep. Maybe his roommate will get it.

Comments

Post Legs

[waitingforplayer2]

[ Chiaki feels like she has more energy than ever.

It's probably the legs. Hopping around takes more energy than simply walking, and to compensate, she's been eating a lot more. Drinking more coffee and soda, too. That seems to jazz her up enough to get the height she needs for a decent spring.

But that also makes her restless fingers more restless. Twiddling her thumbs while manning the Gamer's Circle isn't enough anymore. She really can't take it.

So finally, after a long time of deliberating, she's knocking on Foster's trailer door. ]

October 9th; phone call

[dontpokethat]

[For the past few days, there's been basically no word from Ginko - which isn't entirely new, since he does have a bad habit of forgetting to call people sometimes, but it doesn't usually stretch on for so long.

When he does call, he sounds kind of strained and nervous, and Foster may be able to pick up on the rumble of road noise in the background.]

Hey, Foster, uh-- where are you?

post-portland log

[tacosgay]

Taako has no idea how long it's been since the ritual; days, maybe. He's kept himself confined almost entirely to his bed, due largely to just how sore and exhausted the whole ritual mess left him. Though Steven, Zecora, and some fae successfully mended the bone and any torn muscle or tendons surrounding it, he's still sore and wrung out.

He's spent most of this time resting, spaced out, but a lot of his waking time has had him thinking over his and Foster's plans, and Foster in general-- what he'd learned about him during their time in Portland.

I'll remember that my brain's rotting.

It makes him feel sick to think about very much, the idea of that-- it's just plain gross, and creepy, to boot. And the idea that something like that is happening to you could definitely make a person hard to deal with. In Portland, Foster was different, like... clearer-headed, and he can't help but wonder if the Foster he talked to there is how Foster would be if his brain weren't fucking eating itself.

It's late at night when he finally makes himself stretch down to retrieve his radio from beside his bed, wincing at the fact that every movement still sends faint waves of ache over his core. He tunes it to Foster's personal wavelength, and sighs as he hits the button, speaking into it.

"Hey, Foster. You there?"