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> Be the flighty broad.
Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are dreadfully curious about your older ectobiotwin brother's flavour of the week.
She's in the kitchen, in one of his shirts and her own (please be her own please be her own) red satin-and-lace panties. You can see them peeking out from under the shirt, which is big on the girl, but not exorbitantly so. She's a tall girl, slender and leggy, and probably about a seven-point-five on the Strider-Sexable Scale.
You happen to know, from an accumulation of remarks gleaned from multiple rapid-fire gunfights of wit, that he prefers his girls small, petite, and erring on the side of 'adorable.' You wish you didn't know this, because now you view every kiss he leaves on Jade's forehead with some amount of incertitude. She's probably a nine.
All things considered, you muse over the empty glass you've come to fill, you'd really be doing your dear brother a favour if you were to chase this girl off. A seven-point-five is barely worth his highly-demanded time, after all.
When she opens a third cabinet in search of a glass, you speak up.
"It's the next cabinet to your left."
She jumps and looks over her shoulder, then smiles, apparently unabashed at having been caught half-dressed by her latest lover's sister. "Thanks." Fetching a glass down, she moves to pour herself some milk, while you fill your glass with grapefruit juice.
"Have fun last night?" you ask. It seems to catch her a little off-guard, but she doesn't appear offended.
"Yeah, actually. Your brother's really sweet."
You snort, unable to suppress your amusement at the thought of your darling brother being sweet.
Well, that's not completely fair of you. He is sweet — to you, and to Jade, and even, occasionally, to John — to the three of you he's known for almost five years, been through hell and back with, would trust with his life. But he's still only sweet to you and John under duress. (He's sweet to Jade most of the time, which further confirms your suspicions. You have a notebook nearly full of these particular observations.) The idea that he'd be sincerely sweet to a girl he probably met this very weekend is completely laughable.
So you say, "Did he break out the puppets?"
Uncertainty works its way across her features, like shadows crawling under the moonlight. "The... puppets?"
You feign innocuous surprise. "Yes, he keeps them in his closet, I believe. He usually brings them out to play on the first date. I'm surprised he didn't." Now concern, as if your brother's lack of alacrity in exhibiting his favourite toys is a very grave matter.
That disquietude has settled in like nightfall now. "Um... what kind of... puppets?" She's chewing the inside of her lip. Honestly, she's probably about an eight-point-five on the Lalonde-Lovable Scale, but you — really have to stop picking up on Striderisms.
Before you can paint her a picture of these highly questionable puppets, the man himself comes down the stairs, just as half-dressed as she is, if somewhat more appropriately. His bare chest isn't as suggestive as her bare legs.
"Hey, did you find the—" He stops short, looking at you with eyes that you're sure are aggressively narrowed behind his shades. "Good morning." It sounds like an accusation.
"Good morning, brother, dear." You smile a thousand-watt, brilliantly passive-aggressive smile and take a sip of your juice. "I was just chatting with your girlfriend, here. She's quite nice." You could have called her his 'fling,' and to be honest, you considered it, but it was too aggressive and not passive enough.
The girl in question is now leaning against the counter, watching him uneasily. She smiles when he turns to her. "I... I was just about to tell your sister that I had, um, classes this morning. I'm gonna have to run."
He doesn't argue when she hurries past him to the stairs. No, Dave Strider knows his opponent well, and he must know, too, that this battle is already long lost. His only dignified course of action is to solemnly raise his white flag, and sharpen his swords for the next round.
Unfortunately, 'dignity' is a concept that he's familiar with only in theory. He holds up his phone and snaps a quick picture of you, standing there in your Squiddle pajamas with your hair a mess. You're sure he has something in mind for it, but you adopt a disinterested look, sipping at your juice. You'll get your hands on his phone later, and you'll set his ringtone to that country song he hates after you delete the picture.
Forward planning is essential to a flawless victory.
written here.
She's in the kitchen, in one of his shirts and her own (please be her own please be her own) red satin-and-lace panties. You can see them peeking out from under the shirt, which is big on the girl, but not exorbitantly so. She's a tall girl, slender and leggy, and probably about a seven-point-five on the Strider-Sexable Scale.
You happen to know, from an accumulation of remarks gleaned from multiple rapid-fire gunfights of wit, that he prefers his girls small, petite, and erring on the side of 'adorable.' You wish you didn't know this, because now you view every kiss he leaves on Jade's forehead with some amount of incertitude. She's probably a nine.
All things considered, you muse over the empty glass you've come to fill, you'd really be doing your dear brother a favour if you were to chase this girl off. A seven-point-five is barely worth his highly-demanded time, after all.
When she opens a third cabinet in search of a glass, you speak up.
"It's the next cabinet to your left."
She jumps and looks over her shoulder, then smiles, apparently unabashed at having been caught half-dressed by her latest lover's sister. "Thanks." Fetching a glass down, she moves to pour herself some milk, while you fill your glass with grapefruit juice.
"Have fun last night?" you ask. It seems to catch her a little off-guard, but she doesn't appear offended.
"Yeah, actually. Your brother's really sweet."
You snort, unable to suppress your amusement at the thought of your darling brother being sweet.
Well, that's not completely fair of you. He is sweet — to you, and to Jade, and even, occasionally, to John — to the three of you he's known for almost five years, been through hell and back with, would trust with his life. But he's still only sweet to you and John under duress. (He's sweet to Jade most of the time, which further confirms your suspicions. You have a notebook nearly full of these particular observations.) The idea that he'd be sincerely sweet to a girl he probably met this very weekend is completely laughable.
So you say, "Did he break out the puppets?"
Uncertainty works its way across her features, like shadows crawling under the moonlight. "The... puppets?"
You feign innocuous surprise. "Yes, he keeps them in his closet, I believe. He usually brings them out to play on the first date. I'm surprised he didn't." Now concern, as if your brother's lack of alacrity in exhibiting his favourite toys is a very grave matter.
That disquietude has settled in like nightfall now. "Um... what kind of... puppets?" She's chewing the inside of her lip. Honestly, she's probably about an eight-point-five on the Lalonde-Lovable Scale, but you — really have to stop picking up on Striderisms.
Before you can paint her a picture of these highly questionable puppets, the man himself comes down the stairs, just as half-dressed as she is, if somewhat more appropriately. His bare chest isn't as suggestive as her bare legs.
"Hey, did you find the—" He stops short, looking at you with eyes that you're sure are aggressively narrowed behind his shades. "Good morning." It sounds like an accusation.
"Good morning, brother, dear." You smile a thousand-watt, brilliantly passive-aggressive smile and take a sip of your juice. "I was just chatting with your girlfriend, here. She's quite nice." You could have called her his 'fling,' and to be honest, you considered it, but it was too aggressive and not passive enough.
The girl in question is now leaning against the counter, watching him uneasily. She smiles when he turns to her. "I... I was just about to tell your sister that I had, um, classes this morning. I'm gonna have to run."
He doesn't argue when she hurries past him to the stairs. No, Dave Strider knows his opponent well, and he must know, too, that this battle is already long lost. His only dignified course of action is to solemnly raise his white flag, and sharpen his swords for the next round.
Unfortunately, 'dignity' is a concept that he's familiar with only in theory. He holds up his phone and snaps a quick picture of you, standing there in your Squiddle pajamas with your hair a mess. You're sure he has something in mind for it, but you adopt a disinterested look, sipping at your juice. You'll get your hands on his phone later, and you'll set his ringtone to that country song he hates after you delete the picture.
Forward planning is essential to a flawless victory.
written here.