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2019-01-23

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Fran is overall pretty bad at video games. The one exception to this might be turn-based strategy games where there is no time crunch or precise movement to coordinate in real time, but if you hand her the controller for a game with any type of movement system (especially if there are controls to manually rotate the camera/pov) she is steering characters into walls, off the edge of the screen, directly into the line of fire, etc.

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(roberto cavalli)

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tshirt that says be patient with me i am constantly relearning what it means to be human

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Cloud Gallery Wall: @poshpedlar

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Due to sensory issues, Fran has a particular dislike of fine, dry substances . She will, for instance, always opt for powder-free surgical gloves, and feels about ready to crawl out of her own skin when she has to wear powdered ones. If working with ingredients like flour or confectioner's sugar in cooking, she'll try to use them as quickly and with as little direct contact as possible, washing her hands immediately after and/or wiping them on a wet cloth periodically if she has to handle them for longer stretches of time. This sensitivity also applies to writing implements, so she'll always opt for a pen or marker and favours mechanical if she has to use a pencil (the standard wooden ones smudge too much). She will absolutely avoid using things like chalk or charcoal at all costs.

As a child, she found talcum powder especially upsetting and if anyone managed to get close enough to try putting some on her she would writhe around to make proper application impossible and, on multiple occasions, scream her little head off and pull at her (or their) hair until they relented. The feeling of warm, dry sand which is so appealing to so many is also totally repellent to her. Her family went so far as to get her water shoes for any childhood trips to the beach so that she didn't squirm at the absolute sensory nightmare walking barefoot on the dry sand would give her (Funnily enough, these same water shoes were always quickly discarded once Fran was in the water proper, since she quite enjoys the cool sensation and goopy texture of wet sand.)

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@bizzarrra said: "how did you get your stand?" trish asks, a glint of curiosity in her green eyes as she regards fran. "sorry if that's too personal – i'm just curious, since mine kind of showed up during a battle not that long ago."

It's a simple enough question, spoken with what seems to be a straightforward curiosity, which strangely enough makes it somewhat difficult for Fran to formulate the proper answer. She's cultivated a necessary habit of weighing her words carefully when responding to any sort of questioning, one born from her years within the grinding wheel of Passione, where information is power, and to give too much of it too freely is to seal your own fate at the hands of those who would misuse it against you. She does not quite know what to make of Trish Una within the framework of this mindset yet; a girl who seems to be simultaneously divorced and messily entwined with the circumstances of the gang (or, at the very least, Mr. Bucciarati's team in particular).

With this in mind, Fran wonders if there's some unspoken significance to her coming to Fran with this question--did Mr. Bucciarati direct her to do so because they're both girls of a certain age, or is there something more, some unspoken expectation of her to assist Trish in some way? If so, Fran feels ill equipped for the task, but is compelled to try.

"...I was young," she begins, the pad of a gloved thumb swiping idly over the back of her other hand. "It manifested seemingly of its own volition during a moment of grave personal danger." Her assessing gaze flickers away from Trish. Head tilting in thought, she adds: "...To obtain it as we have isn't as common, but it's not unheard of, either. The vast majority of members, from what I gather, obtained their Stand in a more deliberate process."

Polpo's lighter test. The arrow. Fran does not know what Trish is or is not meant to know, however, so she speaks around it for now.

"...It must have been difficult." There is an unexpected, subtle weight to the otherwise-neutral inflection of her words here, a halting half-second more between the words. Their similarities--however different their personal circumstances are--are not lost on her. A girl, unmoored from the life she once knew, struggling to adapt to her new circumstances, her newfound abilities, her new normal. Fran knows it's no easy thing--wonders if Trish feels rubbed-raw as Fran had when she'd lost her own--...when she'd lost. But perhaps she's just making assumptions, filling in the blanks with her own experiences. Regardless, when her gaze returns briefly to Trish's own she feels it soften just a touch. Fran doesn't exactly know what to do with that either, so she lets her eyes roam to a vague spot over the girl's shoulder instead. Lays out her next words in her head with care. Quietly clears her throat. "...You were fortunate to gain one while under Mr. Bucciarati's supervision, at least. He's... a clever and capable person. In my limited experience."

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A Crash Course in Molotov Cocktails, Halyna Kruk

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@bizzarrra said: "healing must come in handy with this line of work," abbacchio muses, eyeing the girl. leaning on the table nearest to her, it's a slow day. bruno and the others are off running a mission that doesn't require any replaying, so here abbacchio is — making small talk, which she isn't really great at. "do you like what you do?"

Fran lets a low, vague hum of acknowledgement sound in response to the initial observation. As for the second half, it's an unexpectedly complicated question, and with a touch of paranoia Fran wonders if that's deliberate--if it's some attempt to measure her morality, or nerve, or loyalty. If so, is Abbacchio doling it out at her own discretion, or was she directed to do so by Mr. Bucciarati himself…?

...No. She'll get lost in the weeds if she zeroes in on that unknown aspect of the inquiry. What matters more is how she answers, not why she's been asked. She needs to consider her answer carefully, though, all the same.

Despite herself, she thinks back to when she was a child; back when administering the clumsiest press of an ice pack to a classmate's bruise or a bandaid to a scrape set her aglow with a quiet sort of pride (doubly so when her handiwork was praised by her mother, who she considered the expert among experts in such matters, as many children do--as she still does, even if she knows that's objectively rather silly). She recalls the drowsy bob of her head against her mother's chest, of blinking bleary eyes over the simplified anatomical charts spread indulgently in front of her in the evenings. She recalls her father passing the two 'studying' and the way he would idly sound out the syllables for bones and organs and appendages in whatever languages were closest to the forefront of his mind at the time from study, and the somewhat-mangled tongue Fran tried to parrot them back in so he would be impressed with her budding expertise in his field, as well.

Heart. Cuore. Shinzou. Herz. Moyo. Corazón. And so on.

Fran can't put that same tender feeling to the work she does now. In fact, there are times when she finds certain people who end up on her operating table so detestable that she spends most of the procedure on something close to autopilot; imagines the hand of God descending from on high, re-parting the sutured flesh down the middle, opening them back up, undoing all her work; some sort of divine retribution in the absence of any justice of the mortal kind. It soothes her, sometimes. Only sometimes, but it's better than nothing.

"…It's like any other job. Some days are more pleasant than others," is what Fran settles on saying, quite diplomatically she thinks. Her index finger draws a line down the open spine of her book, then thumbs and fans at the pages, occasionally snagging an errant, dog-eared page. With a turn of her wrist, she presses the anatomy textbook closed and looks at Abbacchio (or, to a vague spot at the corner of her forehead--close enough to count as basically eye contact, she thinks) with a tilt of her head. "...I'll confess that I don't like the squirmers. And the ones who make a big deal about not being squirmers even less so at times."

And then, partly because it feels like the polite thing to do, and partly in a bid to redirect attention, she asks: "Do you enjoy what you do?"

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what makes the anglerfish so nefarious? how do you know his heart? is it because he looks a little different from you and me? is it because you think he looks strange?

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"Do you? That's interesting..." She makes a mental note of that little tidbit to ruminate on later. "Stand anatomy, that sort of thing... I won't lie and say I haven't thought about it before, but I couldn't tell you for certain. Since Stands are a manifestation born of their specific user, it might depend on the user's own anatomical knowledge, and how much conscious consideration they have for it--or had, at the time their Stand first manifested--on how complex or simple their Stand's internal anatomy is...? At least visually. In the end, the damage most Stands take are inflicted on their user as well--usually it's the closest comparable area of their own body to where their Stand was struck--so I don't know if it's particularly important that the Stand has, for instance, kidneys of its own to puncture. ...Ah, but it might even be that the internal anatomy of any given Stand is so alien our minds couldn't begin to comprehend it, even if we had the opportunity to study it very closely."

She braces a thoughtful hand under her chin, head tipping to one side. "...An interesting train of thought. More than anything... are you the sort of person who enjoys eating as an act of leisure...? It's quite likely your Stand is drawing from some personal preference or value of yours in this case. And since we're on the topic..."

She pauses here, and flicks an index finger languidly towards the gathering of his Stand. "...Number Five hasn't been able to eat, from what I've observed. Is that really alright?"

mista raises his eyebrows at the question, genuinely considering it for a moment. "you know, that's a great question! i never really thought about it that way, but... i guess i do kinda feel less hungry whenever they're eating. maybe just a little, though." after all, while the sex pistols could eat quite a quantity of food for their small sizes, it still wasn't all that much compared to a human's stomach capacity.. that's how he rationalized it in his head, at least.

"y'know, i never really thought about whether or not they have little stomachs. i've never seen 'em, like, go to the toilet or anything, though. do any stands even have anatomy at all, aside from what's on the outside?" he gestures to her. "i mean, aside from hair stands and all... like, the ones that are separate manifestations and all, i mean."

he gladly welcomes her company, happy to have someone to ramble to. a lot of the gang tends to zone out during some of his long rambles, so he's glad to have a listening ear. "stands are your soul, right? so i guess feeding my little guys here is, like, literal food for the soul!"

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19.01.19 // i’m gonna take you to the beach, i’m gonna take you to the water

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no phone i did not “miss a call” i watched it ring the whole time

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martine sitbon

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James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

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i think it's neat when uhhh. when characters are drawn like this for some reason