Midnight Manor Boarding House, Tuesday Daytime

[hasaknightjob]

Marc and Watts were going to be heading out that weekend so Marc was more motivated than usual to make sure things were running okay with the boarding house. Not that he didn't keep a regular eye on things anyway. But, yanno. Office. His. Still weird that he had one. As with most uncomfortable things in his life, Marc tried dealing with it by avoiding it.

But as said, he was going to be out this weekend so there he was, in his office, making sure bills were paid and whatever else needed doing.

Out in the front of the building the chalkboard read Rooms for Rent. Ask within. The man in the office isn't as grumpy as his face suggests.

[open]

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[deathtofrendo]

Quinn had spent the night at the clinic, fully zonked after the surgery Dr. Lecter had performed on her foot. It was swathed in so many bandages that she couldn’t entirely tell if he’d managed to save her toes or not.

Mostly, she tried not to think about it. Or about how much it hurt. They’d given her the good pain killers, but after watching her mom’s addiction, she wasn’t about to take anything more hardcore than ibuprofen.

So she’d snuck out this morning, stealing a set of crutches, and went looking for somewhere to lay low. A boarding house with a grumpy manager sounded like just the place.

“Hi,” she said, swinging awkwardly into the office on the crutches. “You have rooms?”

[hasaknightjob]

Marc had listened to radio (what? It was Arden.) so he had some idea of who this could be based on the evidence. Even so, he wasn't going to show it. Let her tell her own story, he figured.

"I do," Marc said. He gestured for her to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"I'm Marc Spector. What can I do for you?"

Some about that didn't flow quite right but that was fine. A better phrasing would come to him one of these days.

[deathtofrendo]

He wasn't declaring her the Antichrist, so he had one up on some people she'd had to interact with of late!

"A room," she said, not so much sitting as half-collapsing into one of the chairs. (She probably should not have left the clinic just yet, but . . . that was low on the list of things she probably shouldn't have been doing over the last year.) "I don't know how long. I . . . don't have a lot of money."

She had zero money. Her wallet was probably back in the RV in New Kettle Springs, along with her current burner phone, most of her weaponry, and what little she had by way of spare clothing. She was wearing a pair of clogs with crabs on them that she stole from a supply closet at the clinic.

[hasaknightjob]

"Rent's not much," Marc told her. It was funny how rooms were always affordable for those who needed them. "'course, in exchange for that the place might not be what you're used to. Building's alive. That a problem?"

[deathtofrendo]

“. . . The fuck do you mean ‘alive’?”

[hasaknightjob]

This was why Marc had gone with just ripping the band-aid off, so to speak. Easier than pussyfooting around it.

"It's a being," Marc said. "A living pocket universe. Shaped like a building."

[deathtofrendo]

That was. Not much of an explanation for Quinn.

“. . . Okay.”

Look, if no one died from it, right now she could roll with it.

[hasaknightjob]

Marc reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a contract. He pushed it across the desk to her. "That's got more information. So what's your deal? We gotta worry about whoever did that to you?"

Not pushing, but at the same time making it clear questions were going to go both ways before she could move in.

[deathtofrendo]

“No,” Quinn said, as she leaned forward to scan the contract.

The house could read her mind?? Okay, well. It could enjoy that shitshow if it wanted to.

“. . . There’s a slight possibility that I’m on a 4chan hit list or something though.”

[hasaknightjob]

Marc had zero idea what 4chan was. It might very well exist on his world, he just had no idea. Hit list he knew.

"You live here you're under our protection," Marc said. "Someone comes after you, we'll deal with it."

No, he didn't know if maybe she deserved people coming after her. That wasn't normally a concern for Marc.

[deathtofrendo]

". . . Okay," Quinn said again. She had a feeling she'd be saying that a lot. "Keep an eye out for assholes in clown masks, then."

[hasaknightjob]

Marc frowned.

"Do they have green hair?"

Look, some details about Harley's life Marc remembered.

[deathtofrendo]

"The masks or the people?" Quinn asked, then shook her head. She was still just a little bit loopy from the blood loss, maybe. "I mean, no. Probably not. They're more likely rebelling against the kinds of people who have green hair."

'Green hair' was kind of the antithesis of cozy Americana, after all.

[hasaknightjob]

"Got it," Marc said. Then, to be sure, "You're not from a place called Gotham?"

[deathtofrendo]

"No." Quinn looked up from the contract, watching Mark's face. "I'm from a place called Kettle Springs."

Just because Dr. Lecter hadn't heard of it didn't mean no one else would.

[hasaknightjob]

Marc shrugged to indicate it meant nothing to him. "You here for the school?"

[deathtofrendo]

Quinn let out a huff.

"I'm here because somehow between walking into a burning effigy to stop a crazy preacher and walking back out, I went from rural Pennsylvania to . . . wherever the fuck we are now."

That part had not yet been covered for her. She knew about sharkicanes, but not where in the world they were.

[hasaknightjob]

Marc nodded like he'd heard something like that before. Because, well, pretty much.

"It happens," he said. "Some people come here on purpose. Others show up. It's an okay place. Little weird but you get used to it."

[deathtofrendo]

"Your house can read my mind," Quinn said, tapping the contract. "That's what you call 'a little weird'?"

[hasaknightjob]

"Yes," Marc said, because, well, yeah. "But it won't do it without your permission. Your business is your business. Some folks allow it because it's easier to talk to Midnight that way."

[deathtofrendo]

"Yeah, mind reading is pretty firmly very weird where I'm from. That's my point."

She wasn't entirely convinced by the contract just yet, but did appreciate the whole 'not without permission' thing. She was big on consent.

Just, you know . . . fucking with someone else's shit in violent ways was a form of consenting to her fucking with your shit in violent ways. It made sense to her, okay?

"Whatever. Don't look a gift cheap room in the mouth, right?" She offered the slightest, smallest hint of a smile. "Beats living out of a car."

[hasaknightjob]

Marc also tended to agree with that whole consent to violence thing. Not that he could read her mind of course.

"Can change your mind about it any time too," Marc said. "Both directions. Midnight's not gonna do anything to anyone who lives here without their permission. We just like making it clear up front what the 'anything' is. Another rule is don't fuck with anyone who lives here. Somebody gives you a problem, let me know. I'll handle it."

[deathtofrendo]

Quinn nodded slowly.

“If someone punches me, I will punch them back,” she said. “But I won’t do more than that.”

[hasaknightjob]

"Understandable," Marc said. "Nobody here should. It's a pretty nice island too but out there's none of my business what you get up to."

[deathtofrendo]

Quinn nodded again.

“I only hurt people who hurt me first. But I appreciate that.”