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The Perk | Monday Afternoon

Irene shouldn't have even left the flat, honestly.

It had started with the charming little coin purse that had practically fallen at her feet as soon as she'd set out towards the Perk -- blackmailer. Nothing she didn't already know, and she'd been here before, so she even knew what was happening.

On the course of her journey, she'd encountered a suitcase that read thief (of course), a duffel bag -- horrifying -- that proclaimed DEAD, and a neat little rolling pilot's case that bore an outsized LIAR.

None of this was especially groundbreaking. Try harder, Fandom.

It took until she was settling down at a table before the matched set fell around her. I, read a little hatbox, followed by AM on a makeup case, SHER said the handbag --

"Fuck, no." And all of that was getting shoved into a bin before the suitcase that wouldn't fit arrived, and was summarily shoved under her table. LOCKED.

[open, naturally!]

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"Fuck, no," Margo agreed, with feeling. She wasn't talking to Irene, though, just at the one-thousand-and-twenty-third iteration of the 'DAD' hatbox that popped up in front of her on her way to some much-needed caffeine.

The 'fuck no' was accompanied by a gesture of her wrist, a snap of her fingers. The hatbox iced over, its inscription hidden, and toppled over onto the floor.

The baristas looked up immediately, alarmed.

"Oh, get over it."

"I'll buy your drink if you'll do that for mine," Irene called, neatly dodging another toiletry case that simply read let's have dinner.

Irene had to settle for just deftly knocking it over with a fingertip, in the hopes of hiding that label.

"Deal," Margo said, pointing at Irene with one well-manicured finger as her feet carried her to the counter. "Stop fucking around, island."

Steven came in with a satchel that might at first glance seem like his usual. He gave a nod of greeting to Irene when he saw her.

She was doing better than Jon, who had already been tripped up a number of times by the matching huge steamer trunks labelled GUILT and SELF-LOATHING, the only slightly smaller ones that said STARTED THE APOCALYPSE and MONSTER, and the double handful of almost-cute-in-comparison ones that started with agoraphobia and arachnophobia and went all the way through claustrophobia and coulrophobia, one for each fear.

He made his way through the door and hastily closed it in front of at least some of them. Even if they came back later, he really just wanted to get his tea now!

Irene casually got up and crossed over, winding her way around a newly-appeared not as clever as you think you are trunk, and thrust out a credit card at the barista. "Whatever she wants is on me."

Money doesn't solve everything nearly hit her in the head. At least it was a cute little Coach purse, fittingly.

"You're not carrying it with you?" Irene suggested incredulously, quietly kicking a little tote that read The Woman aside as though she'd barely seen it.

She was guessing Steven, based on attire and posture, but as per usual was treating this as a speculative game.

"They'll follow you in, you know," Irene noted, eyeing that door-closing with sympathy. Don't mind how she wasn't even looking at the little wallet that had appeared, simply reading The Ice-Man and the Virgin in a neat script. Irene certainly was! Look at her just brush it right off the table. "Or new ones, anyway."

"No, but it's a great help," Margo told the money purse, rolling her eyes.

She did that little motion of her wrist-snap of her fingers routine again, neatly icing over both of Irene's latest pieces of luggage - and a small box that said FAKER besides. "Fuck me, is this gonna go on all day?"

Tries to solve everything with anger, said the red purse that landed next to the icy money one.

"Yes, I...I've figured that much out," Jon said, sighing. "But if I can just keep them out long enough to get tea, it would be nice. I...um." He studiously avoided looking at any of Irene's baggage. "I hope you've been doing well, this...thing...notwithstanding."

A backpack labelled socially awkward beaned him in the head before he could catch it.

Irene wasn't even pretending not to read the backpack's message -- instead, she offered out a soft smile. It wasn't as though that one was any sort of secret, at least.

"This is one of my least favorites," she noted, gesturing around the coffee shop with a blasé attitude at odds with her statement. Maybe she was trying to convince herself it was no big deal. Maybe. It didn't help that she was nearly struck with a little travel case that read CAN'T GO HOME in all-caps, and even bore a number of British postmarks just to hammer the point home. Thanks for that, Fandom. "Nearly as bad as bloody truth day."

"If tradition holds," Irene commented dryly, closing her eyes and exhaling as though trying to grant herself just a little more patience as she felt a thump behind her, thanks to a small suitcase that had hit the ground behind her and proudly proclaimed, SENTIMENTAL. "I fucking hate this day. It's been awhile."

Last time hadn't been much more fun, as she'd recalled.

"I...um. Heh. That one I'm at least a bit used to, albeit from the other side," Jon said. "This one is, um. New."

Yeah, go with "new". It wasn't like he exactly forgot about his issues most days anyway, but this seemed like overkill.

Agoraphobia and claustrophobia followed him in, and he briefly wondered if he bashed them together, if they'd cancel each other out.

"It is only a day-long thing, though, I hope."

"In my experience," Irene replied, plunking her elbow down on a hatbox that just said You did this to yourself. "At least with truth day, you can just hide out and not talk to anyone. These'll show up all day long, no matter what we do."

Let's all please just ignore the Uses her sexuality to get her way garment bag that had shown up. Irene was about this close to just dumping her coffee on it and being done.

Oh, look, it matched Jon's broken!

"I'm afraid if I hide out at home I'll be c-crushed by them all." He winced and gestured at claustrophobia. And pretty much none of his were secrets, anyway. If anyone found out something they didn't like, well...it'd hardly be the first time, would it?

Thinks he deserves to be punished popped up promptly.

"You don't," Irene noted, her eyes drifting from claustrophobia to the new one, and why even bother pretending she wasn't reading these? "No one deserves to be punished."

Except for people who paid for it, of course.

Better at her old job promptly popped up at one ankle, and Irene spared a glance before sighing. "It's all a bit on-the-nose, don't you think? Emotional baggage? I get it, Fandom, very cute."

"It's a tradition?" Margo asked, pulling a face. "Fuuuck."

I'm a fucking cyclops, said the new trunk.

"What?" Steven asked, and there was the accent to confirm her guess. He looked down at the satchel which read Stress Ball. "Oh. I mean yeah? Way it works, doesn't it? How are you?"

He didn't ask about Irene's bag. Not for him to know if she didn't want to say.

"You are a beautiful cyclops," Irene offered, because why pretend to be polite about this? Of course they were both reading the baggage. "I've done this at least once before, so -- not as traditional as the sex pollen, I think, since it seems more sporadic, but it's at least recurring."

Coward had shown up in the form of a pretty little garment bag slung over the back of the chair Irene had recently occupied.

"I'm fine, darling, but -- you can throw away the baggage as it turns up, Steven," Irene advised, looking slightly pained as she demonstrably shoved a little metal-woven coin purse that just said Amaya off the table. "Unless that's just your bag with a cute phrase on it."

Stress Ball didn't seem so bad. It might well be a brand from his home universe that she didn't recognize.

Watts was probably going to regret leaving the apartment building. The morning had been- well, at least Steven already knew much of what those irritating bags were referencing.

But he wanted a damned coffee. The kind with chocolate in it. Nearly as soon as he'd picked up his order, of course, a bag on wheels labeled 'CLARISSA' appeared. And... promptly rolled away seemingly of its own volition, through the conveniently-open shop door.

He watched it go, taking a slow, careful sip of his mocha, face carefully blank.

"You did that with style," Irene noted, her tone lightly accusatory as she watched ol' Clarissa there roll away.

Pay no mind to the violin case that appeared in the seat across from her, neatly labeled, Crippling loneliness. Hush, you. She'd gotten a dog to make sure that one wouldn't show up, damn it!

It also wasn't fair that it was a violin case. Fucking island.

"I did try leaving it back at the flat," Steven admitted. "But keeps turning up, doesn't it? Easier to carry it about. Harder to trip over it, that way."

Also it decreased the odds of any of Marc's bags showing up. At least that was the theory Steven was working with and it had panned out well so far. Not that Marc was getting anywhere near consciousness again today if Steven had anything to say about it.

"Hope yours haven't been too bad," Steven said. His wasn't great but at least he knew it already.

"Hm?" Watts said, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, no. It did that all by itself."

Perhaps due to some sort of... sympathetic vibration in the air, or whatever, as soon as Watts did notice that violin case, two more pieces of luggage came crashing down: 'NO HOME' and 'NO FAMILY'. Which he was just going to kind of - kick to the side.

"Is this going to keep up for much longer?" he asked.

Margo was reaching up to touch her eyepatch anyway, while she waved at the baristas to make her damn drink.

"It's annoying," she said. "I was honestly thinking about locking Eliot in the house until it was over."

Saw Eliot die one too many times, said a bag for an uncomfortable 30 seconds before she iced it up.

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The Perk | Monday Afternoon

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