I am flesh and I am bone

They'd been doing well. The world hadn't ended, five was home, the house was full- they'd celebrated. They'd danced and laughed and lived and had fun as normal families do. They reached out to one another to build a better understanding, they spoke more than they ever did in their youth without the specter of Reginald hanging overhead. It'd been light in the mansion. Full of joy. Potential. For the first time since her creation Grace could say without a shadow of a doubt, she was happy. Without a single qualifier or exception. Happy except for the things she had to endure hearing Reginald say about the children. Happy except for how she wasn't allowed to truly be happy.

She was allowed to feel, to express that feeling. She was allowed to change her appearance outside of the strictly defined aesthetics painted onto her by her creator.



And then the ghost. The specter, the threat of everything she managed to recover, to build being taken away again. Of being pared down to the bare doll of a thing she'd drifted about as just after Reginald's death. Reminded in so many ways she has a place and a purpose and it isn't what she wanted- because she isn't meant to want anything.

She's a tool. There are rules.

It means resuming the old routine. The old appearance. All the lovely clothing the children, her children helped her choose folded away in her closet, unworn. Back to the old swingdresses and pincurls, the carefully painted lips and penciled brow. Back to stiffly, mechanically baking and preparing tea at a certain hour. Back to filling the dessert case, a single deviation from the old programming, because the kids are upset. They snack more when they're upset and cookies make everything better. How many batches she's baked now- she doesn't know. She's lost count. The counter and cooler are full of pies, cakes, and pastry, sweet after sweet kneaded, shaped, baked, and dusted with sugar. Flour on her hand and apron but not a curl out of place- not a single, lilting note sung under her breath. Grace bakes in absolute silence.

Options in the comments. Not looking for much thread-jacking on this one, because they're going to be heavy-handed and in need of narrower focus.
CWs: drug abuse, overdose, anxiety/depression descriptions, potential suicidal ideation

( The setup/background )

It really is about time you all stopped whining, don't you think?

Prision Pickup

Five years. It could have been more- it honestly ought to have been more- but it feels like an eternity all the same. Five years of trying to pin down what went wrong, of stalking behind bars, of attempting and failing good behaviour for a shortened sentence. Of enduring her father's condescension and odd entreaty to come back into the fold, as though he had power enough to make all of this go away if she'd agree to be his pretty little project again. Maybe she ought to have taken the deal but pride is, as ever, a demanding mistress.

Not so much that she can't make a call. It's ask for help from home (if anyone's even left, Luther might still be around but she can't be sure) or walk. Seeing as she was arrested in clothing not conducive to walking home (A sheer tux, stilettos), calling is the best option. Whoever comes for the pickup, whoever cares enough to bother? WIll find her loitering outside, arms crossed, glaring out at the horizon.


Didn't you miss me?

It's such fun being home- though things are, to no one's surprise, different. More faces, more furniture, Mother behaving, well. More human. Hela makes a point of wandering down every hall, checking every room, securing every window out of ground-in habit before helping herself to whatever's in the kitchen. She could wait for an assigned mealtime but food, real food? Not common in jail. Odds are she's stolen some casual clothing during her walkabout the house- someone's sweatpants, someone else's hoodie, all lean angles and irate grumbling as she rummages about for cold chicken and pickles in the fridge.

Strange as it is to be home- it's stranger still to know that their father is dead- and she missed it. She lingers where the portrait used to be (why it's gone, she doesn't know, but gone it is) and in the courtyard where there was (allegedly) a funeral, smoking. Glowering. Didn't even have an opportunity to get in the last word. Shame, really.


Booze for Breakfast

"Wait." That- it doesn't quite make sense, what she's hearing- but that could be the half empty bottle of vodka and violently green margarita she's sipping on, draped over the sofa as she takes in whatever she's heard, categorizes it and tries to make drunken sense of it all. "Father died. There were- time-traveling assassins. Five's actually in his fifties. And Vanya, gentle, patient, harmless Vanya...caused the apocalypse? And you undid it all. While I was in prison."

A beat.

"I don't know what's more surprising, that it happened or that it took Vanya this long to snap." They all treated her- well. Not the best. Considering they lived by their father's horrid example. "That's a shame, I would've liked to have seen that."

Options in the comments. Thread-jacking is fine & encouraged, unless the other player doesn't want their stuff thread-jacked.

[ ooc: These are just some ideas for starters but feel free to go wild and make new ones, thread around, run into other characters at the mall who aren't part of the family...have fun ♥. For the mall, feel free to assume they all have money to spend from their inheritance and the like. ]


A) Ashes to ashes




B) New home & Shopping Mall trip

Hey, guys. Family and guests alike. I need your help with a couple things. First off, I need everyone. Each and every single one of you, to come down to my workshop. I have a project that just needs ten seconds of your time, five if you cooperate and do as I say. It's important. It's a gift for Mom.

Second: Once this is done, I need you guys to get mom out of the house so I can set this up somewhere for her to find.

I know the last part will be hard, given her protocols and everything, but do your best. This is important. It's about time mom got something nice that was just hers, right?


Thanks.

( The most important meal of the day. )