1. the secret's out | open

The soft rain of packages and notes include some that, at first glance, may seem surprisingly innocuous.

An empty coffee cup in a package addressed to an F.K., a computer mouse and a scarf in two unmarked ones, and the also-unaddressed sizable bulk of another that's surprisingly light revealed to be an empty piece of battered rolling luggage. The items are completely mundane, bordering on generic, more like random items grabbed out of someone's bedroom than hints at a well-kept secret.

The notes strewn elsewhere might be more promising.

Isn't a coincidence Krouse started dating right her after they voted her team captain?

The deal only had room for five people, and Krouse was going to be one of them.

Krouse said it was business, but Cody took it personally.

Krouse read the emails that Cody didn't get to see.

The young man these things are attached to can, for his part, be found in a few places. There's a bench near the apartment building where he smokes, leaning over his knees and looking out into the distance at nothing. Sometimes he takes up space in a booth at the diner, a notebook open in front of him that he fitfully jots things down in. On rarer occasions in the early days, he might be spotted trailing after a companion bot, watching it work.

Wherever he is, he greets approaching strangers and acquaintances with the same worn, minute quirk of the corners of his mouth, the less-than-a-smile not touching his exhausted dark eyes.

2. cracked reflection | the doppelganger | open

A young man who might look familiar to some can be found in the hospital one bright morning, and that's where he'll mostly keep himself. He wanders the hallways in periodic flights of interest, examining the medical machinery and the roaming companion bots with glittering avidity. At other times, he leans against the exterior of the hospital, smoking through two or three cigarettes as he watches people coming and going.

Sometimes, for no apparent reason, he stops what he's going, halting in the hallway or pulling the filter away from his mouth as he looks some new person over.

"Hey," this Krouse says, placidly amicable, "Can I ask you something?"

3. cracked reflection | the original | open

His counterpart spends most of his time after that sunrise in the hospital, too. This Krouse wears a long, unseasonable and unfashionable plastic shelled coat that stops around his mid-thigh, the pockets weighed down with something heavy enough to keep them from flapping even though he leaves it unzipped. He smokes as much as the other one does, if not slightly more, jittery with sleeplessness.

Process of elimination. The worst place the other him could be is right here, therefore, it's the only logical place he could be. Given the constraints they're working with, maybe there's no point in Krouse sticking close to keep an eye out, but it's hard to see a point to being anywhere else, either.

So here is where he is, leaning against the wall underneath the sign instructing no smoking within however many feet, or bent over a tray in the cafeteria mechanically working through a sandwich, or simply perched on one of the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room. Unlike the other, this one doesn't look that interested in talking, but there's nothing stopping anyone from striking up conversation anyway.

4. wildcard / contact
Happy to style match brackets, and if you'd like to discuss any of the above prompts or pitch a starter PM me on this journal or terriblepurpose

Krouse showed up promptly at Aurora's invitation, his cigarette on the way from the apartment building to the hospital torn through impatiently and stubbed out on one of the stone garbage bins just beyond it. He didn't cut an impressive figure hovering at the edge of the assembled crowd, idly watching the rest of them as he leaned against a wall in red hoodie, dark blue jeans, and black sneakers.

Only someone watching back would have noticed the incisive way his gaze flitted from one person to the next, the bruised shadows under his dark brown eyes giving a hollow edge to his sharp interest.

It's the same kind of look he gives the room behind the door he just opened, scanning its contents quickly and thoroughly. A single cot, a table and chairs, a sink and miniature fridge, on top of which a hooded stick blender, a coffee pot, a kettle, and a shaker cup compete for space. A television blares soft static. There's a note on the table. Nothing else jumps out at him.

"After you," he says, half-turning to make space for his partner, sweeping his hand out to the side to usher her in. Ladies first. It's just polite.

When mysterious packages started dropping out of the sky, Krouse couldn't help but think about loot boxes. That was part of the reason he peeled the first one that landed at his feet open. The rest was plain and simple curiosity. An unmarked package falls out of nowhere, a person wants to know what's in it.

What was in it turned out to be another question mark. A square of purple cloth, neatly cut out of some larger whole, and a slip of paper explaining the goal of the game.

It's practically nothing to go on. He doesn't remember seeing anyone with a particularly purple motif, not that he might have even noticed. He has a feeling that it's one of those things that might only mean something to the person it's meant for, which means that staring at it harder isn't going to get him closer to solving it.

But staring at it keeps him preoccupied as he sits outside the apartment building on a nearby bench that, like a mushroom, seems to have sprouted out of the ground overnight. He turns the cloth over in his hand again as he smokes, the purple clashing with the dark red of his new hoodie.

His head snaps up at the sound of footsteps, his dark eyes underlined by darker half-circles sharp with wariness that shifts to, if not relaxation, at least recognition. Krouse slumps back against the bench and raises his cigarette in a shallow salute.

"Hey, Jessica."

Clones on the loose and a time limit for dealing with it. It's practically fucking nostalgic.

Krouse took the knife. He doesn't think he'll be able to leave it at that, but it's better than nothing. He improvises a loose sheath for it out of pleather slit off the front of a hospital waiting room chair and stitched together with the thickest suture thread he could find, which looks like shit, but keeps the knife from carving into him when he tucks it into his belt.

His next stop was the apartment rec room. Four of the billiard balls sit in a rumpled pillowcase next to him as Krouse works at the rigid wood of a pool cue with the blade of a pocket knife, whittling it to an ugly, sharp point. He pauses occasionally to ash the cigarette hanging from his mouth into a coffee cup set next to him, his eyes flat and distant in the studied neutrality of his expression.

Inside his wrist, a timer ticks down. He only looks at it sometimes.