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The Lion's Den | Wednesday

Yes, everyone. Yes. Dite's was no longer the vaguely-described, but classily-decorated and softly-lit adult store that you were accustomed to.

Instead -- and don't worry about the physics of any of this, because no one had any idea -- it had transformed into something more akin to a warehouse, and as Irene descended the stairs to stare at what had happened to her store, she was struck with the distinct impression that a trucker might walk in at any moment.

And with good reason, considering she hadn't even seen that she had a billboard outside now, too.

The...Lion's Den (???) was open!

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Well, at some point, someone who wasn't a trucker but a blacksmith did walk in, but at least, by now, that blacksmith was almost not even phased over what she found at Irene's instead of Irene's usual shop.

All she knew was that the guy in the leather duster was back at the kiosk in front of the Starbucks that used to be the forge and she was pretty sure there was a proposal pending after the (foolishly, really, if you got right down to it) correctly identified a wakizashi for what it was and so clearly the more she avoided that area, the better, but there weren't very many better places to flee, either.

"I didn't even bring a messed up drink order," she announced unceremoniously as she walked in, hands already up in the air with her frustration, "because I didn't even know which place to go into to mess up an order!"

All of this was very annoying and she just wanted last week back now, okay, thank you.

Last week had been so much better. And not just because of the New Zealand-iness of it all, and the new weirdness they had to deal with now.

"They really would mess it up at one of those places, anyway," Irene commented bitterly, looking up from where she was examining a rack of edible knickers. (There were four varieties. Four! How many brands of edible underwear did one store need to offer?) "I don't think anyone at Dunkin even knows what a tea leaf is."

Quick, someone round up all the British people and take them to Waffle House for some sweet tea. It'll be funny.

"Though I was thinking of coming to check on you," she added, irritated enough about the whole situation to not bother masking her concern. "The forge is a Starbucks?"

"With a little tiny kiosk out front," Amaya grunted, because she hadn't had to say it outloud yet, and, hoo boy, was she not ready to confront that reality of it all, "displaying the worst quality katanas, broadswords, and hunting knives I have ever seen. I feel a bit dirty, honestly, even calling 'em as much!"

"...like in a mall?"

As much as it pained Amaya to say all of that aloud, it clearly also distressed Irene to admit she had ever been in a mall, much less that she had seen one of these awful little chintzy kiosks before.

"This is horrible," she declared, throwing her hands up exasperatedly. "What an insult."

"Like in a mall," Amaya confirmed, whose mall experience was not extensive, but certainly enough to know exactly what Irene meant.

And then she was in a situation where she did something she might otherwise not even try to attempt and that was to look around to get a little bit more of the scope of the place.

"Looks like yours went hard in the other direction..."

"I think there's an echo," Irene commented, dry enough to spark kindling as she crossed her arms around herself to look around the shop with a tsk. "I'm a bit scared to look whether there's viewing rooms 'round back, but I wouldn't be surprised in the slightest."

At least everything was...clean? As far as she'd explored, anyway.

"This is a new one." And they'd both been on the island for quite awhile, too!

"Viewing rooms for wha--"

Nope. Never mind. Amaya figured out that one on her own almost as soon as she started asking and she regretted it and, really, she should have known better, so she cleared her throat and shook her head and moved right on along with, "I have had my forge change a few times, actually, but nothing quite like this, I'll admit that. And while I have to admit, I don't mind the fact that I'm waking up to the smell of coffee already going, I think I'm ready to move on."

She sighed.

"But it's only Wednesday."

And like the narrative said, they'd both been on the island for a while now.

"Well, and Starbucks is hardly coffee," Irene added sniffily, with a truly unearned snobbishness considering she was primarily a tea drinker anyway. "The bit about it being only Wednesday means, of course, that it's going to be worse tomorrow, isn't it? Though how it could get worse than a tacky katana-for-my-dorm kiosk and this, I don't know."

Well, Irene, that's because you lacked creativity! And you also hadn't been outside yet today!

"Okay, I could handle all the Starbucks, but this is an afront to nature," Margo drawled.

She hadn't been by in a while, not on purpose but by accident. This required her presence, however.

This required as much presence as Irene could muster! Everyone should witness this! Look how they massacred her boy, Margo.

"It's all pleather," Irene called, waving a plastic-y garment of some description at Margo with a hapless, vaguely disgusted groan. "What the hell."

"Eugh," Margo said, obligingly walking up to her to give the shitty she-wear the look of contempt it deserved. "That looks like something a 90s-era pop star would wear on tour for a bunch of teenyboppers. This island is sinking down into the pits of mall."

"Even Britney at the height of Oops-I-Did-It-Again-ing would give this a wide berth," Irene decided, throwing the dress (?) vaguely towards the counter like she might have caught something from it. "Is your store still normal?"

Obviously something was happening, but the more Irene reminded herself she wasn't remotely alone in this, the more it...helped was a strong word, but you know. Misery and company.

"The hand soap section started trending Bath & Body Works but I put the fear of me into it and I think it gave up," Margo shared casually. "If it gets any worse I'm just closing up and finding a nice beach to hang out on until this blows over."

"Bit of whiplash to come back from bloody New Zealand to this," Irene grumbled in agreement. "But that's usually a solid move. Get the hell out of town before things get worse and the people with the TV heads get even more aggressive."

She'd been on this island awhile. She had an idea of where this was going, and thus she was thankful that her flat was still intact and had a locking door she could retreat behind if necessary.

"There's gonna be a fight or something, isn't there," Margo said, following that thought to its conclusion. "Ugh."

"Sometimes it's a matter of finding the source," Irene offered thoughtfully, nodding. "Less a fight, more a search for their mothership or whatever. Usually this is the bit where I'm drinking and watching telly with Clementine through it."

Much safer that way, generally speaking, if she couldn't be off the island full-stop.

Margo wrinkled her nose. "See, I'd be up for that if I was more pissed," she said, "But I'm from LA. My brain just autocorrects the Starbucks away."

"But what about the Dunkins?" asked Irene, who said that like 'Dunkin' was a synonym for actual sewage.

She was from London; Starbucks was nothing new. Aggressively Bostonian coffee chains with Al Pacino adverts and munchkins, on the other hand, were somehow even more offensive.

"When we see Dunkins, we drink."

Jon came in, looking more pained than usual.

"I...good lord. Hello, Irene. I really hope this goes away quickly."

"Jon," Irene greeted him from over by where she was examining the blow-up toys, more a plaintive whine of his name than anything that really could be termed a greeting properly. She waved an O-faced, inflatable woman's hand at him. "What a place."

Was it even real? Could such a place exist? In vast quantities, along I-70, even?

"I don't know what's most offensive," he said, avoiding that awful inflatable thing. "The rampant capitalism, the soulless poor quality it inspires, or the rampant misogyny inherent in that design."

Starbucks might be evil, but at least coffee was coffee.

"There's a gent over here, too, but I'll need to get out the bicycle pump if we want to have a look at him."

Jokes! Not really, actually, that was all factual, but Irene at least said it jokingly!

"I'm embarrassed to be carrying this stuff," she admitted. "Though I suppose I can't be blamed for inventory I did not and would not stock in a store that firmly isn't mine anymore."

"That's, um. I think I'll pass, thank you. I hope you're doing well apart from whatever this is."

"Missing holiday more than I think I normally would, thanks to this," Irene offered, waving a hand around as she abandoned her blow-up doll(s) and crossed over. "You? Is the capitalist nightmare hellscape working at all in your favor?"

Someone ought to benefit, somehow.

"A capitalist hellscape works in nobody's favour," Jon said firmly. "Except perhaps the Buried. It encompasses the fear of being buried in debt."

He grimaced at the tacky shop. "I don't suppose burning it all is an option."

"We'd choke on the fumes," Irene decided, shaking her head. "So much plastic, Jon. It'd turn the island into a biohazard."

Though in a few hours, the idea might occur to her with renewed interest as an insurance scam.

Jon grimaced. "Unfortunate." He watched a TV person prowl by outside. "I don't like how this week is turning out."

"On the bright side," Irene offered, "want to bet on whether it'll be done by Saturday?"

That was the thing. If and when something like this outstayed the weekend, then she would really and truly worry.

"We can only hope." Jon sighed. "I suppose it's been a while since anything truly horrid has happened here."

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The Lion's Den | Wednesday

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