The acceptance letters for Stanford applicants would be released March 28, 4 PM PST.
For New York University hopefuls, April 1.
Acceptance letters for MIT release 3.14628. March 14th, 6:28 PM, a humorous reference of all time.
UC Los Angeles? March 21st at roughly 6 PM.
Ivy had no strong compulsion to track dates for her safety schools.
[Ivy Briar, Pregame Thread 2]
Balancing air conditioning preferences in a group came down to keeping the AC a bit too cold. Sweaters and blankets were the compromise. The round banquet-ready dining room table with seats for a dozen was her father's idea. It was adequately repurposed for Red Rock's brightest minds. There were coasters with glasses Ivy regularly topped off without a word. Extra blank notebooks, a selection of snacks carefully picked out for each attendee. All in easy reach.
Ivy already had 5s in AP Chemistry, Statistics, English Literature, and World History. Calculus AB, Psychology, and Physics were her final hurdles for the semester. College credits abound. She strongly doubted straight 5s in Calculus or Physics were in reach. She was only a mortal being after all. She'd count a 3 to 4 as a W.
Still, her best effort was a must, always had been and always would be.
Ivy had her marble blue, forebodingly heavy Calculus textbook open to a page littered with sticky notes. Each sticky note was carefully notated by her handwriting. Lightweight, gentle pressure penmanship; elegant and pleasant to read.
A soft exhale, meditative. A single spin of her mechanical pencil between two fingers. Eyes closed, the bright late afternoon Vegas sun shut out as she envisioned something intended for her own eyes only.
Her eyes fluttered open. She adjusted the drape of her letterman against her shoulder with her free hand.
Ivy finished taking a few margin notes in a passage of essay writing Sylvie was working on. Sylvie was good at what she did. Which was a lot of things, inevitably. A second opinion was never remiss however.
Ivy quietly passed the open notebook back with a soft smile, mostly in her eyes.
A quick scan of the other's chosen battle stations. She checked to see if the condensation on any glass was too stale, too lost to gravity.
Ivy’s parents were still dealing with the mortgage as they eternally were and Ivy hadn’t hosted any of the study groups in fall sem. This was the first one this school year.
Nearly daily practice for NCA Nationals, less than three weeks to go. Less than a week after Rattler basketball's infinity-eth championship bracket appearances. She was constantly tired. Cramming down her weight in carbs and protein to keep up with the demands on her body. Her hands permanently smelled like sterile gym mat.
But she didn’t want to force the others to host all the time. She could cut into her personal budget a bit. Phone it in at practice for a day, or skip a lunch at school.
live good, east coast, west coast, worldwide
Study group for those aiming for the best colleges. Open if you got APs for daaaays. (Feb 8)
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LYourLocalAutist
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A number of cheerleaders walk into a house (some hours ago). The punchlines never arrive as they gather around a dining table and begin to grind their brains against the omnipresent stone of academia. They have presumably congregated in adherence to the old adage of a problem shared being a problem halved but even if you divide the grinding sessions that's just more than one brain being smoothed down into itty bitty pieces to crash down onto bed later. Nevertheless, the group carries on in support of one another's respective scholarly plights. And despite the pessimism and the presence of the past-paper free-response agony concerning the 1970 establishment of the Environmental Protection Agency, Sylvie had to admit she felt rather more comfortable than usual banging her head against the brick essay wall around her fellows instead of on her own.
[Sylvie Rattray-Aubert continued from Civil Procedure in the United States]
Sylvie scribbled out point after point and plan after plan for the essay proper in very elegant and legible calligraphy, her hand moving in pretty little swirls, at the very least nowhere near tiredness for now. She was leaned in and focused, a lock of blonde hair going unnoticed as it draped out of place down her face, her lips moving in non-existent mumbles to the self. The letterman draped across the back of the chair; big sleeves were not typically the most efficient for essay writing. Everything very neatly sectioned into its base parts, and those base parts are passed around for convenience. Like so; Sylvie's expression noticeably brightened as she heard the shhhh of a notebook sliding across wood. "Thanks." Came easily out of her mouth with a sweet and genuine (typically the default) tone as she lifted the notes to her eyes. Quickly Sylvie began to change and adapt what already existed in accordance to the small perspectives newly described on the side of the paper.
Ivy didn't take AP gov, but Ivy knew how to structure an essay really well and how to organize a study session, so Sylvie was thankful for her presence anyway. Even at its worst, she considered, an outside observation was always useful. Dad had told her that, once. Advanced esoteric lawyer technique stuff. At least it applied, even with Sylvie on the other side. Her purpose, especially in this context, was listening. "Rubber-ducking", as it were. When Ivy got stuck on some five-pointer which involved integrating fractions (totally understandable), she could describe the problem to the small and patient girl across her, and just speaking it out loud seemed to be enough to get her going again. An auspicious technique, and Sylvie got a small break from essaying in exchange. Symbiosis.
Nevertheless, they'd been at it for a while. The sun was lowering in tandem with Sylvie's energy, and she failed to suppress a yawn... but tried to push on anyway. Head unconsciously leaned on a hand, itself being supported by an elbow unconsciously resting on the table. The mumbling became slightly more audible as she tried to mentally slap herself awake from exhaustion.
"Thusly, congress' influence on the actions of the bureaucratic agency in this scenario..."
[Sylvie Rattray-Aubert continued from Civil Procedure in the United States]
Sylvie scribbled out point after point and plan after plan for the essay proper in very elegant and legible calligraphy, her hand moving in pretty little swirls, at the very least nowhere near tiredness for now. She was leaned in and focused, a lock of blonde hair going unnoticed as it draped out of place down her face, her lips moving in non-existent mumbles to the self. The letterman draped across the back of the chair; big sleeves were not typically the most efficient for essay writing. Everything very neatly sectioned into its base parts, and those base parts are passed around for convenience. Like so; Sylvie's expression noticeably brightened as she heard the shhhh of a notebook sliding across wood. "Thanks." Came easily out of her mouth with a sweet and genuine (typically the default) tone as she lifted the notes to her eyes. Quickly Sylvie began to change and adapt what already existed in accordance to the small perspectives newly described on the side of the paper.
Ivy didn't take AP gov, but Ivy knew how to structure an essay really well and how to organize a study session, so Sylvie was thankful for her presence anyway. Even at its worst, she considered, an outside observation was always useful. Dad had told her that, once. Advanced esoteric lawyer technique stuff. At least it applied, even with Sylvie on the other side. Her purpose, especially in this context, was listening. "Rubber-ducking", as it were. When Ivy got stuck on some five-pointer which involved integrating fractions (totally understandable), she could describe the problem to the small and patient girl across her, and just speaking it out loud seemed to be enough to get her going again. An auspicious technique, and Sylvie got a small break from essaying in exchange. Symbiosis.
Nevertheless, they'd been at it for a while. The sun was lowering in tandem with Sylvie's energy, and she failed to suppress a yawn... but tried to push on anyway. Head unconsciously leaned on a hand, itself being supported by an elbow unconsciously resting on the table. The mumbling became slightly more audible as she tried to mentally slap herself awake from exhaustion.
"Thusly, congress' influence on the actions of the bureaucratic agency in this scenario..."
The V9 Children themselves:
The Machininst - Raya Loux The Petite - Sylvie Rattray-Aubert The Forlorn - Céline Sharpe The Tough Guy - Manuel "Mañana" Hernández And here's outdated info about them plus where (not all of) their relationships are: viewtopic.php?t=9024
The Machininst - Raya Loux The Petite - Sylvie Rattray-Aubert The Forlorn - Céline Sharpe The Tough Guy - Manuel "Mañana" Hernández And here's outdated info about them plus where (not all of) their relationships are: viewtopic.php?t=9024
((Stella'd said she'd be here. So she was here. Had already finished Calc last semester, wasn't here because she needed to be. But, you know, she didn't make commitments she didn't plan on following through.))
Wasn't at the dining table. Nah, open floor plan. Living room adjoining the kitchen, no wall. Annotated copy of King Lear and a closed notebook on the coffee table, Stella sitting on a chaise lounge, back propped up, right leg crossed over the left, one foot on the ground, holding her phone in both hands. Not in a great mood, not sure why, but able to fake it.
Single airpod in.
Wasn't actually sitting on a chaise lounge. You'd already know that if you were someone who knew what they were. Buuuuut, well, she was a gracious guest -- always important to glaze your host.
Fiiiiine Corinthian leather.
Anyways,
She glanced sideways at the dinner table. Then, baaaack to her phone.
Anyways, iiinto Marcy Valerio's DMs.
Stella wasn't friends with her per saaaay. Call it a distaste for her contrarian aura; voted second most likely of the graduating class to OD on fent before the age of 21, after Belphegor or whatever she wanted to call herself. Cold, mutual, low-level tension -- Stella could see that and she presumed Marcy could too. But, also, you know, Stella was capable of caring about her teammates and being nice, and Heathers was actually a work of fiction, fun fact. And, she'd already told Ingrid M. she was gonna do this.
So.
"Hey"
Send.
'Top secret, for official eyes only"
Send.
"Got an invite from mona to one of her raves. VIP access, etc"
Send.
"Seemed like something you might be interested in. I can send you the info if you want to tag along."
Send.
Wasn't at the dining table. Nah, open floor plan. Living room adjoining the kitchen, no wall. Annotated copy of King Lear and a closed notebook on the coffee table, Stella sitting on a chaise lounge, back propped up, right leg crossed over the left, one foot on the ground, holding her phone in both hands. Not in a great mood, not sure why, but able to fake it.
Single airpod in.
Wasn't actually sitting on a chaise lounge. You'd already know that if you were someone who knew what they were. Buuuuut, well, she was a gracious guest -- always important to glaze your host.
Fiiiiine Corinthian leather.
Anyways,
She glanced sideways at the dinner table. Then, baaaack to her phone.
Anyways, iiinto Marcy Valerio's DMs.
Stella wasn't friends with her per saaaay. Call it a distaste for her contrarian aura; voted second most likely of the graduating class to OD on fent before the age of 21, after Belphegor or whatever she wanted to call herself. Cold, mutual, low-level tension -- Stella could see that and she presumed Marcy could too. But, also, you know, Stella was capable of caring about her teammates and being nice, and Heathers was actually a work of fiction, fun fact. And, she'd already told Ingrid M. she was gonna do this.
So.
"Hey"
Send.
'Top secret, for official eyes only"
Send.
"Got an invite from mona to one of her raves. VIP access, etc"
Send.
"Seemed like something you might be interested in. I can send you the info if you want to tag along."
Send.
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
((There's a ping on Stella's phone a couple minutes later))
Marcipan: Heeeyhey
Marcipan: Oh wow. Sounds like a fustercluck in the making
Marcipan: I'm SO in
Back to the dining table, then. Chair to the right of Ivy, back to the wall, head of pink hair bent over Ivy’s calculus homework.
[Today’s Vivian: baggy charcoal jeans, lime-green denim jacket, oversized cyan tee, and a brain that worked 70% better than those of the other Vivians.]
Yeah, yeah, image makes the girl and practice makes perfect, but helping your friends takes precedence over all that. And today, being helpful required a brain. So here she was.
Brow furrowed, as if concentrating. Pencil tapping away on her chin. She’d been done a few minutes now, but hadn’t wanted to distract Ivy while she was marking Sylvie’s essay. Hadn’t wanted it to seem like she’d been waiting for Ivy to finish, either.
One more actual glance-over, just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.
And then, voice soft but energetic[1]: “Ivy~
!”
She placed the homework in front of its owner.
Ivy’s duties had (so far) included the venue, the glasses that never fell below half full, the curated pile of smarties and nerds (heh) in front of Vivian, and Sylvie’s essay. All while training for that cheer competition with the outside team she didn’t like talking about (but with the girl having been barely available for the last few weeks, a Vivian can guess). Vivian’s duty? To make sure that Ivy suffered for it as little as possible.
“Not too much for you! Two big ideas: deriving logarithms, and using the chain rule. For logs, you tend to swap where the base and log go in the derivative, plus you forget to switch to natural log.”
“Basically just an oopsie, but we get that oopsie a lot. So, y’know, take ‘em slow if they’re logs.”
“Now! You’ve also got a few like this one, where you get stuck and kinda take a guess. And, like, 90% of the time that you’re stuck, you’re gonna wanna pick something to substitute and break out the chain rule. Aaaaaand, if you’ve already done that, try substituting something inside the substitution. The chain rule’s a swiss army knife, so keep it in your pocket.”
“Do it like so, m’kay?”
Vivian winked at Ivy. Gave her a smile that said, If you need any more help with that, just ask.
“Aaaaaaaand, that’s it! Ezra, you’re up!”
She reached for Sylvie's essay.
[1]Sylvie had been yawning earlier.
[Today’s Vivian: baggy charcoal jeans, lime-green denim jacket, oversized cyan tee, and a brain that worked 70% better than those of the other Vivians.]
Yeah, yeah, image makes the girl and practice makes perfect, but helping your friends takes precedence over all that. And today, being helpful required a brain. So here she was.
Brow furrowed, as if concentrating. Pencil tapping away on her chin. She’d been done a few minutes now, but hadn’t wanted to distract Ivy while she was marking Sylvie’s essay. Hadn’t wanted it to seem like she’d been waiting for Ivy to finish, either.
One more actual glance-over, just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.
And then, voice soft but energetic[1]: “Ivy~
!”She placed the homework in front of its owner.
Ivy’s duties had (so far) included the venue, the glasses that never fell below half full, the curated pile of smarties and nerds (heh) in front of Vivian, and Sylvie’s essay. All while training for that cheer competition with the outside team she didn’t like talking about (but with the girl having been barely available for the last few weeks, a Vivian can guess). Vivian’s duty? To make sure that Ivy suffered for it as little as possible.
“Not too much for you! Two big ideas: deriving logarithms, and using the chain rule. For logs, you tend to swap where the base and log go in the derivative, plus you forget to switch to natural log.”
“Basically just an oopsie, but we get that oopsie a lot. So, y’know, take ‘em slow if they’re logs.”
“Now! You’ve also got a few like this one, where you get stuck and kinda take a guess. And, like, 90% of the time that you’re stuck, you’re gonna wanna pick something to substitute and break out the chain rule. Aaaaaand, if you’ve already done that, try substituting something inside the substitution. The chain rule’s a swiss army knife, so keep it in your pocket.”
“Do it like so, m’kay?”
Vivian winked at Ivy. Gave her a smile that said, If you need any more help with that, just ask.
“Aaaaaaaand, that’s it! Ezra, you’re up!”
She reached for Sylvie's essay.
[1]Sylvie had been yawning earlier.
For the first time (today) and the thousandth time (this year—this month), Ezra was struck by a throat-clenching sense that he belonged anywhere but in this particular room.
>> Ezra Weiss continued from aquilegia canadensis
The house was new—relatively, anyway, he was sure he’d been in Ivy’s home at some point but not any time recently—but the foreboding halls of every home in Silver Springs had long since become familiar, if not still a little intimidating. His varsity jacket, too, sat draped across the back of his chair; the relative chill in the air worked fine for him in his plain grey t-shirt and jean shorts alone because he ran hot no matter what he did and hotter still when the pressure cooker began to turn. Like it was always doing, all the time, forever.
No complaints about the company, either, especially given that the alternative was studying at home, his mother half-hovering and pretending not to be, all smiles, “let me know if you need anything”. Anything was better, not to say present company compared favorably in that sense alone—of course not. These were his friends.
That Ezra resided on a different planet from his friends was, of course, his own fault. As further evidenced by how his own blue Calculus textbook mirrored Ivy’s only in the page it was opened to; his lacked the sticky notes, instead decorated by haphazard highlighting and margins in the notes scribbled too quickly to be easily read back, even through his own eyes. His own homework problems barely touched, his eyes pinging back and forth between the worksheet (gibberish) and his phone, begging it for a distraction.
Glancing through message histories again. Nothing from Cordelia. Nothing from Alejo. Nothing from hewasnotlookingatthatone
Back to it again. Trying to listen to Vivian because she knew what she was talking about, and if she didn’t she faked it so well that she might as well know—as usual. It was something like envy, what he felt, but without any malice. Just quiet resignation. All the time, forever. To his credit, he registered some of what she said. To his rather less credit, the rest of it turned into radio static of rapidly increasing volume in his head.
Such that when Vivian said his name, her voice pinged against his skull like a dull knife on bone.
“Me?” Ezra’s voice cracked, dry, he took a sip from his drink, thank you Ivy, sorry Ivy, he had drained his glass too many times too quickly already.
“I’m, ah. Fine?”
As far as lies went, that was a very bad one. He pushed his hair back with jittery fingers.
“I mean, you pretty much went through everything with Ivy already, yeah? You shouldn’t have to explain it a second time just cause I didn’t catch all of it.” He managed a smile that got about halfway through his eyes. Good enough. “But thank you.”
He glanced at Ivy, hopefully. “Ah, I mean, if you don’t mind me looking at your notes when you’re done with them?”
As usual, he asked for too much. But whatever would dodge Vivian’s attention for the moment. Her spotlight hurt his eyes.
>> Ezra Weiss continued from aquilegia canadensis
The house was new—relatively, anyway, he was sure he’d been in Ivy’s home at some point but not any time recently—but the foreboding halls of every home in Silver Springs had long since become familiar, if not still a little intimidating. His varsity jacket, too, sat draped across the back of his chair; the relative chill in the air worked fine for him in his plain grey t-shirt and jean shorts alone because he ran hot no matter what he did and hotter still when the pressure cooker began to turn. Like it was always doing, all the time, forever.
No complaints about the company, either, especially given that the alternative was studying at home, his mother half-hovering and pretending not to be, all smiles, “let me know if you need anything”. Anything was better, not to say present company compared favorably in that sense alone—of course not. These were his friends.
That Ezra resided on a different planet from his friends was, of course, his own fault. As further evidenced by how his own blue Calculus textbook mirrored Ivy’s only in the page it was opened to; his lacked the sticky notes, instead decorated by haphazard highlighting and margins in the notes scribbled too quickly to be easily read back, even through his own eyes. His own homework problems barely touched, his eyes pinging back and forth between the worksheet (gibberish) and his phone, begging it for a distraction.
Glancing through message histories again. Nothing from Cordelia. Nothing from Alejo. Nothing from hewasnotlookingatthatone
Back to it again. Trying to listen to Vivian because she knew what she was talking about, and if she didn’t she faked it so well that she might as well know—as usual. It was something like envy, what he felt, but without any malice. Just quiet resignation. All the time, forever. To his credit, he registered some of what she said. To his rather less credit, the rest of it turned into radio static of rapidly increasing volume in his head.
Such that when Vivian said his name, her voice pinged against his skull like a dull knife on bone.
“Me?” Ezra’s voice cracked, dry, he took a sip from his drink, thank you Ivy, sorry Ivy, he had drained his glass too many times too quickly already.
“I’m, ah. Fine?”
As far as lies went, that was a very bad one. He pushed his hair back with jittery fingers.
“I mean, you pretty much went through everything with Ivy already, yeah? You shouldn’t have to explain it a second time just cause I didn’t catch all of it.” He managed a smile that got about halfway through his eyes. Good enough. “But thank you.”
He glanced at Ivy, hopefully. “Ah, I mean, if you don’t mind me looking at your notes when you’re done with them?”
As usual, he asked for too much. But whatever would dodge Vivian’s attention for the moment. Her spotlight hurt his eyes.
Ivy's eyes flicked. One, two, three, four. She saw a whole lot of everything all at once. The brain processes visual information in milliseconds. Consciously knowing what to do with that information as quick, on the other hand? Some people call it talent, some people call it hard work. Ivy called it, hmm. Need to know basis.
Sylvie! Muted hazel eyes beginning to blur over. Eyes left open too long would start to naturally tear up.
Stellaaaaa. Own space claimed (nobody in the Briar family liked that couch). Usual amount of unreadable. No more, no less, no need to force it. Their eyes met in an instant and Ivy smiled as electron quick as her gaze's sashay away.
Vi-vi-an. Tilde, heart emoji! Vivian's dark eyes were alive with the sort of gentle affection you had to know where to look to see. Bit of a bias there, so on. Shared. Ivy puckered her lips into a playful air kiss, assassin silent. Love ya, babe.
"Gotcha." Ivy's attention had moved on, but she heard the tail end of Vivian's instructions clearly. Numbers were an abstraction. Just like any other shape. At a glance she saved the soft scribbles, parentheses, superscripts. The same way she did anything else two-dimensional pretending to exist in the third.
Ez... ra...
Fuck. Ivy forced herself to blink with intent. Right in the instant before it was obvious she was staring.
Ezra. No. Ellipses. The eyeballs are a deceptively full shape hidden by the relative flatness of the face. Two pointed at her. Center line askew, where the symmetry between the lips and the eyes didn't quite align. She knew what it all meant, Ezra was an easy read, and Ivy was totally okay with that fact because it did not in any way bother her and in fact she was very normal around him at all times whatsoever because she was not Sylvie exploding like a firecracker around Claude but hey maybe that wasn't a good thing because Sylvie could express herself and experience a full range of emotions Ivy treated like she needed to call a bomb squad on and
Stop. The instant before it became obvious she was distracted.
Vivian was right there. Stella was also right there. Heck, Sylvie could probably see through her. If any of them were paying attention in the instant Ivy didn't have control? Lovely.
"You can look at them now."
Ivy stood from her place at the table. A frisson up her spine as the ice in her veins became a bit too literal. The thermostat beckoned to her and she ignored it. She tugged her letterman a bit closer, fingers and shoulders briefly vibrating in their outlines. She took two notes with her scalpel, lead gray so soft it almost vanished into the sticky note pastel.
'Swap base and log : )'
'Substitute substitute'
Still perfectly legible. She hefted her calculus book, folding Vivian's scratch paper into the shape of a bookmark. Two hands needed. She didn't exactly hide the bruises over her wrists from her overloaded schedule. But she semi-consciously knew by now how to orient her motions to minimize the visual distress she caused. The book was gently deposited by Ezra's side. Ivy patted it. Looked right at him with a smile. She could do that, of course. Ivy was capable of being OK. That was kind of all she was capable of, when she thought about it.
She reversed directions around the table. Soon to hover over Sylvie's side. Her middle finger and thumb clicked together once, feather light. A dry snap inches from Sylvie's ear.
"Before you're lights out, Sylvie. Could you summarize what you're currently reading through for me real quick?"
Active engagement. Ivy knew from experience that catching one hundred some pounds of falling teenage girl kept the senses sharp. The girl in this case was a metaphor for understanding the federal workforce.
Sylvie! Muted hazel eyes beginning to blur over. Eyes left open too long would start to naturally tear up.
Stellaaaaa. Own space claimed (nobody in the Briar family liked that couch). Usual amount of unreadable. No more, no less, no need to force it. Their eyes met in an instant and Ivy smiled as electron quick as her gaze's sashay away.
Vi-vi-an. Tilde, heart emoji! Vivian's dark eyes were alive with the sort of gentle affection you had to know where to look to see. Bit of a bias there, so on. Shared. Ivy puckered her lips into a playful air kiss, assassin silent. Love ya, babe.
"Gotcha." Ivy's attention had moved on, but she heard the tail end of Vivian's instructions clearly. Numbers were an abstraction. Just like any other shape. At a glance she saved the soft scribbles, parentheses, superscripts. The same way she did anything else two-dimensional pretending to exist in the third.
Ez... ra...
Fuck. Ivy forced herself to blink with intent. Right in the instant before it was obvious she was staring.
Ezra. No. Ellipses. The eyeballs are a deceptively full shape hidden by the relative flatness of the face. Two pointed at her. Center line askew, where the symmetry between the lips and the eyes didn't quite align. She knew what it all meant, Ezra was an easy read, and Ivy was totally okay with that fact because it did not in any way bother her and in fact she was very normal around him at all times whatsoever because she was not Sylvie exploding like a firecracker around Claude but hey maybe that wasn't a good thing because Sylvie could express herself and experience a full range of emotions Ivy treated like she needed to call a bomb squad on and
Stop. The instant before it became obvious she was distracted.
Vivian was right there. Stella was also right there. Heck, Sylvie could probably see through her. If any of them were paying attention in the instant Ivy didn't have control? Lovely.
"You can look at them now."
Ivy stood from her place at the table. A frisson up her spine as the ice in her veins became a bit too literal. The thermostat beckoned to her and she ignored it. She tugged her letterman a bit closer, fingers and shoulders briefly vibrating in their outlines. She took two notes with her scalpel, lead gray so soft it almost vanished into the sticky note pastel.
'Swap base and log : )'
'Substitute substitute'
Still perfectly legible. She hefted her calculus book, folding Vivian's scratch paper into the shape of a bookmark. Two hands needed. She didn't exactly hide the bruises over her wrists from her overloaded schedule. But she semi-consciously knew by now how to orient her motions to minimize the visual distress she caused. The book was gently deposited by Ezra's side. Ivy patted it. Looked right at him with a smile. She could do that, of course. Ivy was capable of being OK. That was kind of all she was capable of, when she thought about it.
She reversed directions around the table. Soon to hover over Sylvie's side. Her middle finger and thumb clicked together once, feather light. A dry snap inches from Sylvie's ear.
"Before you're lights out, Sylvie. Could you summarize what you're currently reading through for me real quick?"
Active engagement. Ivy knew from experience that catching one hundred some pounds of falling teenage girl kept the senses sharp. The girl in this case was a metaphor for understanding the federal workforce.
There's a ping on Ivy's phone. Notification volume one pixel short of silent.
There's a ping on Ezra's phone.
4 new notifications from Rissa
4 new notifications from Rissa
Yeah i'll be in the area if you need a ride after
Stopped by the salvation army, you know the one by the bookstore? i saw the best necklace with eyeball thingies on it! so cool
Say hi to the others for me
All you guys too smart for me!!
-
LYourLocalAutist
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- Location: IN YOUR HEAAAAD IN YOUR HEAAAAAAAAD ZOMBIE, ZOMBIE, ZOMBIE-E-E
Sylvie lifted herself a measure higher, her back straightening and the mumbling leaving her lips as she took to taking some informal attendance of the present congregation as a method to further snap her into reality from the clutches of eep. Each little process and recap was a synapse snapping and getting the small girl back into the revision groove. Ivy was there, of course, ticking off the rest of the cast like boxes on a list just as Sylvie was. Right now, strangely comfortingly enough, they were on some similar wavelength in terms of condition. Right by her side, seemingly having cracked a method of perfect energy conservation in a hypothetical conjunction with her inexplicable decision to dress for the revision sesh like she was going to the mall was Vivian. She seemed a master of multitasking at the moment, aiding in Ivy's integrations, marking what mess Sylvie's draft made, all while maintaining The Image. And even then, it wasn't some image she particularly disliked or was even in any capacity bad at maintaining. That voice, a cheer in and of itself, had already gotten her to snap awake a little extra. Sylvie loved that for her, smart girly girls gang et cetera.
Tracing her finger across the inked lines within the shoddy and used paper of the source booklet, Sylvie had finally woken up to the point where she could do all her thinking in her head, and even more besides that. In her peripherals, drawn to the sudden bout of nerve-wracked noise, she took note of the Ezra in the room and guiltily took a little pride in how she was at least getting something done, even sleepy. He was a bit too easy a read for her to make any meaningful mental note on his contributions (Besides the something with Ivy though that was mostly just Ivy clock it et cetera), and she thought about whether she could help him go over his homework after she'd gone over the critiques of her own essay. More stones, more birds, total avian omnicide and perfect efficiency of learning. Splendid.
And then there was her, over there. Sylvie didn't particularly bother turning to look, even though it was that easy to feel when Stella was looking at you by default. She had that thing about her, especially today, a word Sylvie didn't want to put much effort into remembering lest she shove herself down some manner of rabbit hole. What was she going to do, anyway? Contemplate? Say something? Say something about her?
Would you?
Quite unfortunately for the girl trying to clear her head by thinking, she'd terrifically owned herself once more by thinking too much, and as such being unaware of the Ivy by her side and the incoming-
CLICK!
Sylvie jolted slightly and turned her head up sideways, soft hazels wide and neck craned, the most typical of muscle memory. Right, now she was awake. Gaze instantly folded into that small grin and furrowed brown that said "oh you", and Sylvie found herself talking right alongside the look, although her words were actually audible.
"I'm not sleeping on the job, Ivyyy."
Small chuckle of accompaniment as she reached out with a hand and engaged in another process of muscle memory, something passed down from experiences studying with parents. A quick and innocuous flip of her booklet onto its front, revealing that blank back devoid of information. Her parents were quite fond of knowing that whatever she was saying came from the heart and the mind, and not simply the flitting eyes looking anywhere but at the person you're addressing. Sylvie's neurons, freshly snapped into action, began working that oily machine of memory once more, and a mix of written subject and read factoids compressed themselves into some processable sound as she began to talk.
"So, what's most important to know about the establishment of the EPA is its source in Nixon's 1970 Reorganization Plan No. 3, authorized by a 1966 amendment to title 5 of the USC. Along with it not being an establishment of a single enabling act of congress, aspects of this plan were also meant to absorb several other agencies within the US government at the time, such as..."
And on she went. Information was on point. Lots of gesturing, lots of simplification... well, she'd been asked to summarize. But nothing was wrong. Even Sylvie herself seemed content explaining the process of presidential proposals to the girl looming above her. Interested, even. Well, just maybe. Maybe it was just nice to be able to talk to a person instead of, say, a wall. Either way, she was into it and getting things right. What else could you ask of someone during a revision session?
Tracing her finger across the inked lines within the shoddy and used paper of the source booklet, Sylvie had finally woken up to the point where she could do all her thinking in her head, and even more besides that. In her peripherals, drawn to the sudden bout of nerve-wracked noise, she took note of the Ezra in the room and guiltily took a little pride in how she was at least getting something done, even sleepy. He was a bit too easy a read for her to make any meaningful mental note on his contributions (Besides the something with Ivy though that was mostly just Ivy clock it et cetera), and she thought about whether she could help him go over his homework after she'd gone over the critiques of her own essay. More stones, more birds, total avian omnicide and perfect efficiency of learning. Splendid.
And then there was her, over there. Sylvie didn't particularly bother turning to look, even though it was that easy to feel when Stella was looking at you by default. She had that thing about her, especially today, a word Sylvie didn't want to put much effort into remembering lest she shove herself down some manner of rabbit hole. What was she going to do, anyway? Contemplate? Say something? Say something about her?
Would you?
Quite unfortunately for the girl trying to clear her head by thinking, she'd terrifically owned herself once more by thinking too much, and as such being unaware of the Ivy by her side and the incoming-
CLICK!
Sylvie jolted slightly and turned her head up sideways, soft hazels wide and neck craned, the most typical of muscle memory. Right, now she was awake. Gaze instantly folded into that small grin and furrowed brown that said "oh you", and Sylvie found herself talking right alongside the look, although her words were actually audible.
"I'm not sleeping on the job, Ivyyy."
Small chuckle of accompaniment as she reached out with a hand and engaged in another process of muscle memory, something passed down from experiences studying with parents. A quick and innocuous flip of her booklet onto its front, revealing that blank back devoid of information. Her parents were quite fond of knowing that whatever she was saying came from the heart and the mind, and not simply the flitting eyes looking anywhere but at the person you're addressing. Sylvie's neurons, freshly snapped into action, began working that oily machine of memory once more, and a mix of written subject and read factoids compressed themselves into some processable sound as she began to talk.
"So, what's most important to know about the establishment of the EPA is its source in Nixon's 1970 Reorganization Plan No. 3, authorized by a 1966 amendment to title 5 of the USC. Along with it not being an establishment of a single enabling act of congress, aspects of this plan were also meant to absorb several other agencies within the US government at the time, such as..."
And on she went. Information was on point. Lots of gesturing, lots of simplification... well, she'd been asked to summarize. But nothing was wrong. Even Sylvie herself seemed content explaining the process of presidential proposals to the girl looming above her. Interested, even. Well, just maybe. Maybe it was just nice to be able to talk to a person instead of, say, a wall. Either way, she was into it and getting things right. What else could you ask of someone during a revision session?
The V9 Children themselves:
The Machininst - Raya Loux The Petite - Sylvie Rattray-Aubert The Forlorn - Céline Sharpe The Tough Guy - Manuel "Mañana" Hernández And here's outdated info about them plus where (not all of) their relationships are: viewtopic.php?t=9024
The Machininst - Raya Loux The Petite - Sylvie Rattray-Aubert The Forlorn - Céline Sharpe The Tough Guy - Manuel "Mañana" Hernández And here's outdated info about them plus where (not all of) their relationships are: viewtopic.php?t=9024
"cool cool, will lyk more once the roster is finalized." Stella sent Marcy.
Switched to her messages with Woodrow. Fun game she liked to play, finding out how many days in a row he thought he could spend not interacting with her while calling her his girlfriend. Closed them.
Anyways.
She glanced up at the table again. Sylvie, Ivy, twink, whatever those hypothetically were. And also, Vivian. Girl thought she was clever, but you could ask her whether she thought numbers were an invention or a discovery and then steal her wallet while she was talking. Not like Stella stole wallets.
Stole one wallet. Ingrid's. Was supposed to be a joke, assumed she'd notice. But no, it was actually just that easy to pickpocket people. Stella gave it back a second later, she had ethics.
Anyways, theeeeese people.
If a gas leak ignited in Ivy's house that split second and killed them all, whose grave would get the most flowers from strangers?
Stella's. Maybe Sylvie's. But probably Stella's.
Why?
Stella's death sold the most adspace.
...
...
Eyes regained focus.
Realized she was tired.
They weren't getting anything out of her being here. Vice versa.
She needed some space to herself.
So, she stood up. Bent over, snatched her copy of King Lear. Turned her head to the group.
"Ivy, I think I'm gonnnnnna," she said, nodding her head in the general direction of Ivy's front door. Unstella-ish. Didn't wait for a response before turning and walking out.
((They'd probably just assume she had important things to do.))
Switched to her messages with Woodrow. Fun game she liked to play, finding out how many days in a row he thought he could spend not interacting with her while calling her his girlfriend. Closed them.
Anyways.
She glanced up at the table again. Sylvie, Ivy, twink, whatever those hypothetically were. And also, Vivian. Girl thought she was clever, but you could ask her whether she thought numbers were an invention or a discovery and then steal her wallet while she was talking. Not like Stella stole wallets.
Stole one wallet. Ingrid's. Was supposed to be a joke, assumed she'd notice. But no, it was actually just that easy to pickpocket people. Stella gave it back a second later, she had ethics.
Anyways, theeeeese people.
If a gas leak ignited in Ivy's house that split second and killed them all, whose grave would get the most flowers from strangers?
Stella's. Maybe Sylvie's. But probably Stella's.
Why?
Stella's death sold the most adspace.
...
...
Eyes regained focus.
Realized she was tired.
They weren't getting anything out of her being here. Vice versa.
She needed some space to herself.
So, she stood up. Bent over, snatched her copy of King Lear. Turned her head to the group.
"Ivy, I think I'm gonnnnnna," she said, nodding her head in the general direction of Ivy's front door. Unstella-ish. Didn't wait for a response before turning and walking out.
((They'd probably just assume she had important things to do.))
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
“Hm? Uhm-okay-byyyyeeeeeeeee!” Vivian called after Stella’s retreating form. As if caught off-guard—which, now that Vivian was thinking about it, she had been.
Vivian tilted her head, a thoughtful look in her eyes. Four friends, three problems of varying sizes and urgency. Much to consider, and Vivian was considering.
Ivy’s was one you couldn’t do too much about; Ezra was taken and she knew it.
As for Ezra himself: needed help, too ashamed to be helped, would take time to convince. Didn’t need to be convinced right this minute, though, and Vivian had time.
Stella, then. Would probably make more sense for Ivy to take this one, being as she was the host, but Ivy was attending to Sylves and doing a good job of it, so don’t you worry, Ivy, ya girl’s got this one, okay?
“Aaaah~
—guess I’ll check on her?” she said, overlapping her words with a yawn. As if unworried and unbothered (a good Vivian is never worried or bothered).
She didn’t wait for an answer. The phone came out, and she scrolled to Stella’s name.
A beat. Time enough to get into a Stella state of mind.
“yo”
Send.
“everything alright?”
Send.
“didn’t seem yourself”
Send.
She’d probably respond that she was fine, whether or not she was. But the rituals mattered anyways. And if Stella really was fine and thought Vivian to be a hoverer, then Vivian would gladly take that L over leaving it for Ivy.
Alright, Ezra’s turn.
…
Oh, Ezra. You don’t actually have any completed homework for Vivian to help you with, do you?
Vivian found his name in her phone, permitted herself an internal sigh, and began tapping away. Helping Ezra with his homework was only ever supposed to be a stopgap measure; you had to keep the boy from drowning for long enough to get the lifeboat over to him. Or convince him to climb onto the lifeboat, in Ezra’s case. Vivian understood well enough; there but for the whims of fate goes she. If it had taken the death of a brother to convince Vivian to climb aboard, then of what use were words and gentleness?
But she wouldn’t be a Vivian if she didn’t try, and you get more time to try if you can keep the boy above water.
So. Vivian typed. One eye on the phone, which she held under the table; other eye on the essay she was supposed to be marking. Casual, no-big-deal tone. A reminder of favors owed. Emphasis that the stress he was under was real and justified. Emphasis that he deserved help.
And when she finished typing, she looked up, nodded and mhm’d and aaah’d at Sylvie’s description of the EPA’s establishment, and waited exactly 45 seconds before pressing send.
Vivian tilted her head, a thoughtful look in her eyes. Four friends, three problems of varying sizes and urgency. Much to consider, and Vivian was considering.
Ivy’s was one you couldn’t do too much about; Ezra was taken and she knew it.
As for Ezra himself: needed help, too ashamed to be helped, would take time to convince. Didn’t need to be convinced right this minute, though, and Vivian had time.
Stella, then. Would probably make more sense for Ivy to take this one, being as she was the host, but Ivy was attending to Sylves and doing a good job of it, so don’t you worry, Ivy, ya girl’s got this one, okay?
“Aaaah~
—guess I’ll check on her?” she said, overlapping her words with a yawn. As if unworried and unbothered (a good Vivian is never worried or bothered). She didn’t wait for an answer. The phone came out, and she scrolled to Stella’s name.
A beat. Time enough to get into a Stella state of mind.
“yo”
Send.
“everything alright?”
Send.
“didn’t seem yourself”
Send.
She’d probably respond that she was fine, whether or not she was. But the rituals mattered anyways. And if Stella really was fine and thought Vivian to be a hoverer, then Vivian would gladly take that L over leaving it for Ivy.
Alright, Ezra’s turn.
…
Oh, Ezra. You don’t actually have any completed homework for Vivian to help you with, do you?
Vivian found his name in her phone, permitted herself an internal sigh, and began tapping away. Helping Ezra with his homework was only ever supposed to be a stopgap measure; you had to keep the boy from drowning for long enough to get the lifeboat over to him. Or convince him to climb onto the lifeboat, in Ezra’s case. Vivian understood well enough; there but for the whims of fate goes she. If it had taken the death of a brother to convince Vivian to climb aboard, then of what use were words and gentleness?
But she wouldn’t be a Vivian if she didn’t try, and you get more time to try if you can keep the boy above water.
So. Vivian typed. One eye on the phone, which she held under the table; other eye on the essay she was supposed to be marking. Casual, no-big-deal tone. A reminder of favors owed. Emphasis that the stress he was under was real and justified. Emphasis that he deserved help.
And when she finished typing, she looked up, nodded and mhm’d and aaah’d at Sylvie’s description of the EPA’s establishment, and waited exactly 45 seconds before pressing send.
“Thank you.”
Ezra smiled back at Ivy, a little better this time, a little more like he meant it because he did, or at least was trying to, which at a certain point became the same thing. His gaze flicked down to her hands and then, quickly, down to the book. Wasn’t the time or place to say anything even if he’d wanted to, and he didn’t, or at least, shouldn’t. If someone was going to, it shouldn’t be him.
Back to the book, Ivy’s, handwriting comprehensible, content may as well have been in Latin, but now he had to try, having deprived Ivy of her study material for his sake. He unfolded Vivian’s careful notes and laid it beside the textbook like a cipher, as though studying one would unlock the other and magically solve calculus, a thing that made sense and was very possible.
His phone buzzed, too loud on the tabletop, skittering a scant couple of millimeters away from him as he snatched it up. Glanced at the message on the lock screen.
Deep breath. Neutral expression. Eyes scanning. He heard Sylvie talking and glanced up from the screen at her because to not do so seemed impolite, but the magnet draw of his phone kept pulling his gaze back. Deep breath. Too fast this time. He wasn’t in AP Gov, so the absolute lack of a clue he had as to what Sylvie was talking about was not unexpected and sort of a relief compared to the alternative. He listened regardless, tried to learn something, wasn’t that the point? Eyes drawn back to his phone. Deep breath. He’d been holding it for a second. Trying to time it out. Being normal. Neutral expression. Red face.
He glanced to his right, in the general direction of his 2017 Honda Accord, neatly parked outside; his parents had given him three options and he’d texted them to her at the time, pretended he’d take her advice into account, locked in her choice immediately. It had been a good choice, all things considered; had only seen the inside of her shop twice and only for regular maintenance. He almost wished he’d picked something less reliable.
At any rate, he definitely didn’t need a ride home.
Hopeless.
Back to the book. His eyes trying to refocus. He’d vaguely noticed Stella’s departure but didn’t comment; their relationship was “exists on the same team” and any attempt to make it more than that would be stymied by the fact that she intimidated him worse than Marcy without any effort at all. Still listening to Sylvie. Deep breath. Words running together, in his ear and on the page. God, focus. For one second. Do literally anything to justify being here before someone notices you’re a fraud.
Buzzing in his hand this time. He glanced down, eyes narrowed slightly, frowned as he unlocked his phone again.
Deep breath. Ezra didn’t look at her. Did he really have a face to save at this point? It felt worth the act, anyway.
Ezra smiled back at Ivy, a little better this time, a little more like he meant it because he did, or at least was trying to, which at a certain point became the same thing. His gaze flicked down to her hands and then, quickly, down to the book. Wasn’t the time or place to say anything even if he’d wanted to, and he didn’t, or at least, shouldn’t. If someone was going to, it shouldn’t be him.
Back to the book, Ivy’s, handwriting comprehensible, content may as well have been in Latin, but now he had to try, having deprived Ivy of her study material for his sake. He unfolded Vivian’s careful notes and laid it beside the textbook like a cipher, as though studying one would unlock the other and magically solve calculus, a thing that made sense and was very possible.
His phone buzzed, too loud on the tabletop, skittering a scant couple of millimeters away from him as he snatched it up. Glanced at the message on the lock screen.
Deep breath. Neutral expression. Eyes scanning. He heard Sylvie talking and glanced up from the screen at her because to not do so seemed impolite, but the magnet draw of his phone kept pulling his gaze back. Deep breath. Too fast this time. He wasn’t in AP Gov, so the absolute lack of a clue he had as to what Sylvie was talking about was not unexpected and sort of a relief compared to the alternative. He listened regardless, tried to learn something, wasn’t that the point? Eyes drawn back to his phone. Deep breath. He’d been holding it for a second. Trying to time it out. Being normal. Neutral expression. Red face.
Ezra wouldn’t, couldn’t; Vivian, at least, would match his tone to his face to her name and know one and one and one made three.I will
Don’t sell yourself short
You get to spend your Saturday scoping out cool necklaces
I’m doing calculus
You’ve probably made better life decisions
He glanced to his right, in the general direction of his 2017 Honda Accord, neatly parked outside; his parents had given him three options and he’d texted them to her at the time, pretended he’d take her advice into account, locked in her choice immediately. It had been a good choice, all things considered; had only seen the inside of her shop twice and only for regular maintenance. He almost wished he’d picked something less reliable.
At any rate, he definitely didn’t need a ride home.
Yeah, a ride would be great, thanks
I appreciate you
Hopeless.
Back to the book. His eyes trying to refocus. He’d vaguely noticed Stella’s departure but didn’t comment; their relationship was “exists on the same team” and any attempt to make it more than that would be stymied by the fact that she intimidated him worse than Marcy without any effort at all. Still listening to Sylvie. Deep breath. Words running together, in his ear and on the page. God, focus. For one second. Do literally anything to justify being here before someone notices you’re a fraud.
Buzzing in his hand this time. He glanced down, eyes narrowed slightly, frowned as he unlocked his phone again.
✌️ wrote: hiiiii so ik you said that i shouldn't have to explain things a second time, but tbh i like explaining things! + i've got literally nothing going on after this study sesh anyways, and, like, ik ur super busy and stressed out. u deserve help if you need it! also i owe you for the flowers you picked out for ray (he loved them btw, tysm <3) sooooooo lemme pay you back for that okay? ^u^
Deep breath. Ezra didn’t look at her. Did he really have a face to save at this point? It felt worth the act, anyway.
Thanks
I mean, sorry
Exhaled through his nose. Picked up his pencil and started copying Ivy’s notes into his notebook in worse handwriting. Vivian’s notes sprinkled in as appropriate. She’d help him make sense of it later. At least this counted as doing something—he furrowed his brow, trying to form the glyphs into words into concepts in his mind as he went.But also thanks
Open floor plan. Hardwood floor and earthy-tone rugs, all dry kindling for the Vegas sun. Room looked larger minus one focal point. It had always been too much of a cavern for Ivy, as a baby, as an everything else. A place to hibernate, minus the winter.
Sylvie's soft spoken and graceful flourishes. 1983, INS v. Chadha, Congress grants the executive branch broader powers to reorganize the bureaucracy in 1984 via the Reorganization Acts Amendment. Easy to follow for someone who didn't speak the language. Sylvie pleasantly hummed along. Her countermelody to the ambiance of a churning HVAC doing lip trills over an open vent.
Stella's body language. Hadn't left much to the imagination, inscruitable motive aside. Took a single neuron or less than to construct the billowing cloud, the mouth full of twisted jagged metal teeth left over after the accident. A full palette of fiery hues, smudge smudge, tortillion stained blood and wine red. Mmm, no need to envision the corpse left over. Ivy's anatomy studies exclusively used the living. The acceleration of a peppermint-white (WA8624) ZL1 was slightly worse than pre 2023 models. No points for guessing who that info came from.
Ivy caught Vivian's eye with unspoken thanks. Unworried, unbothered. Envisioning Stella's untimely death aside— not a wish, not an intrusive thought. More of an idle aesthetic musing.
'Good to drive?' Said without Ivy's lips moving. One wayward jab of a finger. The job of a back spot is to be minimally noticed by the audience, and by the other cheerleaders. Vivian and Ivy picked their roles for a specific reason. Ivy did not tumble, not on the Red Rock team anyway. She'd perfected this one in the tenth grade. No stagger at the end. Who cared? It's just an example. Never happened if nobody ever saw it. Marcy and Ivy didn't see eye to eye on the, um. Uses of Ivy's talent. Whatever. Agree to disagree.
She glanced at Ezra. Just a moment. Another example of something that never happened.
"I think it would be better to emphasize,"
Ivy made a few verbal notes, as Sylvie concluded. Overall, five out of five on the scorecards. Judges crying and clapping. Enlightenment onto the masses.
"... You can honestly minimize a lot of the connecting points you make, I think." For an AP essay the details mattered more than the comprehension. Working within the expectations and limitations of the medium was important. No need to invent painting a picture with a vibrant array of hues and values when what you had was a pencil (#2, sharp point, backup on the desk, no pencil cases allowed). "Just for the sake of time management." In short, Ivy was telling Sylvie to make the essay harder for a layman to follow along with. The grader would know what they were looking for moreso than an Ivy would.
Ivy nodded. Satisfied if Sylvie was satisfied. Ivy relaxed, like, she was already relaxed, but reaaaaally sunk into it. She pulled her chair a bit closer to her and sat back into it.
"Anyways. Your turn to resuscitate me." Ivy's head hit her forearm hit the desk. Controlled break fall, no noise, casual-like. Click, went bone touching bone. An admission of weakness, right where people could see it. No take back-sies. Why not? A single sigh, diaphragm and all. "How much longer do you have in you?"
Sylvie's soft spoken and graceful flourishes. 1983, INS v. Chadha, Congress grants the executive branch broader powers to reorganize the bureaucracy in 1984 via the Reorganization Acts Amendment. Easy to follow for someone who didn't speak the language. Sylvie pleasantly hummed along. Her countermelody to the ambiance of a churning HVAC doing lip trills over an open vent.
Stella's body language. Hadn't left much to the imagination, inscruitable motive aside. Took a single neuron or less than to construct the billowing cloud, the mouth full of twisted jagged metal teeth left over after the accident. A full palette of fiery hues, smudge smudge, tortillion stained blood and wine red. Mmm, no need to envision the corpse left over. Ivy's anatomy studies exclusively used the living. The acceleration of a peppermint-white (WA8624) ZL1 was slightly worse than pre 2023 models. No points for guessing who that info came from.
Ivy caught Vivian's eye with unspoken thanks. Unworried, unbothered. Envisioning Stella's untimely death aside— not a wish, not an intrusive thought. More of an idle aesthetic musing.
'Good to drive?' Said without Ivy's lips moving. One wayward jab of a finger. The job of a back spot is to be minimally noticed by the audience, and by the other cheerleaders. Vivian and Ivy picked their roles for a specific reason. Ivy did not tumble, not on the Red Rock team anyway. She'd perfected this one in the tenth grade. No stagger at the end. Who cared? It's just an example. Never happened if nobody ever saw it. Marcy and Ivy didn't see eye to eye on the, um. Uses of Ivy's talent. Whatever. Agree to disagree.
She glanced at Ezra. Just a moment. Another example of something that never happened.
"I think it would be better to emphasize,"
Ivy made a few verbal notes, as Sylvie concluded. Overall, five out of five on the scorecards. Judges crying and clapping. Enlightenment onto the masses.
"... You can honestly minimize a lot of the connecting points you make, I think." For an AP essay the details mattered more than the comprehension. Working within the expectations and limitations of the medium was important. No need to invent painting a picture with a vibrant array of hues and values when what you had was a pencil (#2, sharp point, backup on the desk, no pencil cases allowed). "Just for the sake of time management." In short, Ivy was telling Sylvie to make the essay harder for a layman to follow along with. The grader would know what they were looking for moreso than an Ivy would.
Ivy nodded. Satisfied if Sylvie was satisfied. Ivy relaxed, like, she was already relaxed, but reaaaaally sunk into it. She pulled her chair a bit closer to her and sat back into it.
"Anyways. Your turn to resuscitate me." Ivy's head hit her forearm hit the desk. Controlled break fall, no noise, casual-like. Click, went bone touching bone. An admission of weakness, right where people could see it. No take back-sies. Why not? A single sigh, diaphragm and all. "How much longer do you have in you?"
-
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Sylvie's mouth, likely unlike the majority of other mouths on this Earth, possessed a unique feature in the form of an autopilot function. It was a coping mechanism of sorts, specially designed to serve Sylvie in the capacity that she'd get to appear her sweet default while breaking her mind down while reciting stuff she'd otherwise ostensibly care very little for. It was simple, to her at least; it was like splitting her mind in two. There was the automation, some program designed to retain whichever information she was being interrogated on and solely given access to the mouth and vocal functions of the body, pitiable in the temporary nature of its existence. And then, there was Sylvie, who enjoyed contenting herself with fleeting thoughts of other things, just concise enough not to overload the necessary functions of the automation. Typically, it would be some short consideration concerning a new outfit or a new place to shop or oh was the party someone or other said we were all invited to Monday or Tuesday et cetera. But there were a few more interesting things to catch that split attention today.
Stella, for instance. Sylvie couldn't afford to stop and speak a goodbye and properly consider her demeanour and such when she began to declare her exit for fear of Ivy noticing she wasn't paying attention and stunting on her with one of those professional major league eighty megaton kick-tumblers or whatever they taught you for championship brackets. Quick turn, smile, wave would have to suffice. Besides, even with just the peripherals, it was easy to notice and take an interest in Stella being Unstellalike. This was because there was a way Stella acted. End of sentence. Okay, Sylvie could probably word it better in debate club or some such where she could take into consideration all the nuances and subtleties of human personality with her full focus, but to her at least, it was simply the best way to simplify the fact of the matter. People had personalities, boxes in which they fit, enneagrams and Watson-whatevers and all the little different-coloured typecasting internet avatars of the rainbow. For lack of a more eloquent way to put it, what with additionally trying to describe the intricacies of whatever the fuck Nixon was doing back in the day, Stella's version of that was Stella. It was so utterly Stella that it typically allowed Stella the degree of power which Sylvie couldn't help but notice was something she distinctly possessed. Call her flanderizing or generalizing or whatever all you want, it was just the way it was. Power over systems. Mechanisms. Uh, herself. A sheer sort of confidence. Implacable in that way. The thing was, that sheer force of personality, subtle or normalized or otherwise, simply made it frighteningly easy to point and watch and stare when the Stella wasn't Stellaing. The force, hardening and immutable, could just as easily calcify and be made plain to observations of contrast or error when bereft of its producer. As all systems did, really.
Oh, right, she was still talking. Where was she? Automation, response.
1984. Seems a good place as any to cap off. When had she read that book, again...
Fully in control of herself once more, she took the register. An Ezra who didn't take AP Gov but was apparently trying to listen anyway, a Vivian who didn't take AP Gov but was apparently trying to listen anyway while critiquing her essay, and an Ivy who didn't take AP Gov and was listening anyway and could probably do better than Sylvie at AP Gov. Sylvie immediately leaned in and refocused eyes and ears the moment Ivy's mouth opened. Song and dance critique phase et cetera, nod along but in the way where you're actually listening. All points taken in stride simply because of necessity and an understanding of the word's definition. In any case, there were definitely worse critiques than "Please begin assuming the people grading your paper actually know the subject." Sylvie was about ready to move on, turn her head to the ever-reliable-and-also-in-possession-of-her-draft Vivian, when suddenly-
Oh!
Girlie down! Plane crash. Drafts forgotten. Billions dead. Cute lowkey, buuut flopping always was. It always reminded Sylvie of cute animals. As such, Sylvie sprung into action according to the image, by means of a gentle smile and an even gentler few pats on the head from a smol hand. Sylvie liked comforting. It was nice, thusly, that she was apparently good at it. For once she could probably thank her size, and as always she could thank her shape and skin softness. (One hundred million vitamin e oil vials stored in a warehouse in the valleyyyyy) She added that eeextra little "you're okay :3" lilt to her voice as she spoke.
"There, there. Don't burn yourself out. I can go until you want to stop. It's, uh..."
She looked around a bit, almost to prove the little jokey point.
"...It's your house, Ivy."
Wee giggle. :3
Stella, for instance. Sylvie couldn't afford to stop and speak a goodbye and properly consider her demeanour and such when she began to declare her exit for fear of Ivy noticing she wasn't paying attention and stunting on her with one of those professional major league eighty megaton kick-tumblers or whatever they taught you for championship brackets. Quick turn, smile, wave would have to suffice. Besides, even with just the peripherals, it was easy to notice and take an interest in Stella being Unstellalike. This was because there was a way Stella acted. End of sentence. Okay, Sylvie could probably word it better in debate club or some such where she could take into consideration all the nuances and subtleties of human personality with her full focus, but to her at least, it was simply the best way to simplify the fact of the matter. People had personalities, boxes in which they fit, enneagrams and Watson-whatevers and all the little different-coloured typecasting internet avatars of the rainbow. For lack of a more eloquent way to put it, what with additionally trying to describe the intricacies of whatever the fuck Nixon was doing back in the day, Stella's version of that was Stella. It was so utterly Stella that it typically allowed Stella the degree of power which Sylvie couldn't help but notice was something she distinctly possessed. Call her flanderizing or generalizing or whatever all you want, it was just the way it was. Power over systems. Mechanisms. Uh, herself. A sheer sort of confidence. Implacable in that way. The thing was, that sheer force of personality, subtle or normalized or otherwise, simply made it frighteningly easy to point and watch and stare when the Stella wasn't Stellaing. The force, hardening and immutable, could just as easily calcify and be made plain to observations of contrast or error when bereft of its producer. As all systems did, really.
Oh, right, she was still talking. Where was she? Automation, response.
1984. Seems a good place as any to cap off. When had she read that book, again...
Fully in control of herself once more, she took the register. An Ezra who didn't take AP Gov but was apparently trying to listen anyway, a Vivian who didn't take AP Gov but was apparently trying to listen anyway while critiquing her essay, and an Ivy who didn't take AP Gov and was listening anyway and could probably do better than Sylvie at AP Gov. Sylvie immediately leaned in and refocused eyes and ears the moment Ivy's mouth opened. Song and dance critique phase et cetera, nod along but in the way where you're actually listening. All points taken in stride simply because of necessity and an understanding of the word's definition. In any case, there were definitely worse critiques than "Please begin assuming the people grading your paper actually know the subject." Sylvie was about ready to move on, turn her head to the ever-reliable-and-also-in-possession-of-her-draft Vivian, when suddenly-
Oh!
Girlie down! Plane crash. Drafts forgotten. Billions dead. Cute lowkey, buuut flopping always was. It always reminded Sylvie of cute animals. As such, Sylvie sprung into action according to the image, by means of a gentle smile and an even gentler few pats on the head from a smol hand. Sylvie liked comforting. It was nice, thusly, that she was apparently good at it. For once she could probably thank her size, and as always she could thank her shape and skin softness. (One hundred million vitamin e oil vials stored in a warehouse in the valleyyyyy) She added that eeextra little "you're okay :3" lilt to her voice as she spoke.
"There, there. Don't burn yourself out. I can go until you want to stop. It's, uh..."
She looked around a bit, almost to prove the little jokey point.
"...It's your house, Ivy."
Wee giggle. :3
The V9 Children themselves:
The Machininst - Raya Loux The Petite - Sylvie Rattray-Aubert The Forlorn - Céline Sharpe The Tough Guy - Manuel "Mañana" Hernández And here's outdated info about them plus where (not all of) their relationships are: viewtopic.php?t=9024
The Machininst - Raya Loux The Petite - Sylvie Rattray-Aubert The Forlorn - Céline Sharpe The Tough Guy - Manuel "Mañana" Hernández And here's outdated info about them plus where (not all of) their relationships are: viewtopic.php?t=9024