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[ 11: 32 PM EST ] [ Dunstan, FL ]

The TV sitting above the pie case displayed the frenzy of Times Square, gearing up for 2015. Inside the diner it was still a good hour early for the folks leaving parties taking place all across town and well past the hour midweek church got out. In one corner sat a deputy getting ready for the big New Year's Haul with several coffees, a slice of pie (though she'd turned down the Holiday Special,) and the distinct air of impending schadenfreude.

At the counter a young boy with pale blonde curls, a light smattering of freckles, and wide hazel eyes stared up at the screen. The small body showed signs of drooping every few minutes, but manfully righted within moments, casting worried glances around the diner to see if anyone had noticed before sternly fixing on the screen once more. The waitress pretended not to see and instead adjusted her foil tiara, turning her grin toward the night's cook before waving him out on his announced smoke break.

All in all, Jodeene's looked ready for a quiet countdown.

[ 11: 33 PM EST ] [ Dunstan, FL ]

Grinning at him, America reached under the counter and pulled out a fairly dapper paper top hat, all gaudy gold and cheerfully spangled. She waggled it at him enticingly, as if it were the most tempting gifts. The boy turned to him with a solemn, sleepy gaze that perked up at the sight of the hat. Reaching over to the seat beside him, he picked up his own, putting it on in a sort of preening example.

"Where's the sweet pea? She in bed or counting down with your pretty visitors?" Because of course there was always town gossip, and it took an interest in him especially, even (or maybe especially) if he did hardly a thing to merit the quiet attention. For her part, though, America simply liked him. He was a good tipper, and for a single mother both working and trying on further education, that didn't hurt at all. But there were other good tippers, and not all of them the sort to grab or sleaze about, either.

But he was kind of sweet, quiet or wry or doting on his little girl. It'd been a surprise to see that small figure at the door, alongside one that looked like the sort of bad decision she'd loved to make in high school. Even more to see them side by side, ears sticking out and flushed from the wind outside, giving rise to a pleased laugh that she couldn't politely explain to the customer she'd been serving. Now it was more of a surprise to see him without her, the shadow without the sunshine, but pleasant enough on his own really.

[ 11: 35 PM EST ] [ Dunstan, FL ]

"Yeah?" And, feeling suddenly shy at the idea of Tuesday liking her, she reached over the counter and pressed down on the hat's brim, tilting it to a jaunty angle before turning to the cooktop. "Course she does, I'm he...hecka likable."


His usual wasn't anything she couldn't handle herself. Starting up the bacon she placed a mug in front of him, pouring hot water over the bag to steep and leaving the carafe on the counter. Moments later, Taym would find the space between him and the boy, Justice, crossed with an attempt at stealth that would be more impressive had the stools not been taller than him. The man's assistance required, and by the time the child was settled in once more, he also announced with great dignity, "My us-al. Thanks."

[ 11: 36 PM EST ] [ Dunstan, FL ]

This time hiding the sudden smile required putting a hand to his mouth under the guise of scratching what was not quite but what was trying to be a beard.

"You should say please too," he said, matter-of-factly enough to avoid sounding like he was lecturing him. "Because it was really rude of me not to say please." A plethora of lines for her suggested themselves to him at this, a dozen playful opening gambits, and he glanced up at her before dropping his eyes back to his tea, quelling all of them.

[somewhere in England] [23:57 - December 31, 1414]

Dr. Jannisari blew on her fingers slowly, hoping that her own warm breath could chase the cold from between her joints. She had stayed too late writing, only pausing to light candles as dusk threatened the horizon, stretched towards her office with dark, cold fingers. But, caught in a fervor of blinding efficiency, she had continued to write, scattering powdered eggshells across the wet ink, pen quivering impatiently, waiting for her to turn to a new page: a fresh, unmarked page. She thought the ink might prefer the newness, for the stroke of the first letter on the new page always seemed more decisive, more compelling, than anything she had written previously. But, no matter the page, the cramped words struggled across those pages like world-weary soldiers, too tired by their lot in life to fight for dominance. Although cramped, they kept their ranks, marched steadily on through humors, through aromatherapy and the specific uses of peppermint, roses, and camphor, through her own wild theory about the seeds of contagion. She felt, sometimes, after she'd spent too many hours bent over records, copying the results of her experimentation, that the ink might rise up in some oak gall tidal wave possessed or powered by her failures. That it would drown her, write its own version of history across her skin, collect, congeal in her lungs the words of philosophers and doctors greater than she.

Reaching up, her long, ink-stained finger pinched the bridge of her aquiline nose. Ink was ink, after all, and nothing to be feared or revered. Such thoughts were a clear indication of her need for sleep. The small brazier in her office afforded little light and less heat, especially in such a cold winter. Ice glazed across her window panes - not a soft, lacy frost, but a thick sheet that presented a distorted view of the outside world. Sometimes, in the few moments of girlish fantasy she afforded herself, Jannisari sat by it, idly watching students pass, seeing their features warp into something more monstrous, more... interesting. The year had not been kind in may ways, she thought, cold fingers trailing along the edge of an as-yet unmarked page. Her trials and experimentations, her research was all fairly tame - the progression of disease in animals (living) and humans (dead, because the college would not grant her live subjects - ethics), the effect of aromatherapy on disease, the transmission of contagion. The seeds of disease was by far the theory that made the most sense - that, like some evil, blossoming flower, disease spread it self in physical manifestations, liker pollen. But Sir Kirkaldy had told her not to waste her timer and stick with the gentler ways of aromatherapy if she wished to continue receiving grants. And it always boiled down to money for research.

The chapel's bells began to toll, a song for a new year, hopefully fresher and brighter than the one previously. Dr. Jannisari sighed for a moment, and thought of all the things she'd like to do, she needed to do. An errant strand of greying hair was tucked back into her bun, her robes readjusted absently. She wanted to test. The limits of the human body were fascinating - through stress, through disease, through extreme conditions they marched on until breaking. She wanted to see that exact moment. Exactly how many units of force would be required to tear a body apart? A dead corpse could, of course, provide some measure of this information, but Dr. Jannisari preferred live feedback. She wanted to know what it felt like through every stage of the black death, in a controlled area. Introduced, possibly treated, watched over by scientists, by her. And that was how diseases should be - controlled by her, not haphazard and spreading like fire between those who touched each other. A frown crossed her thin features, causing her lips to appear even more pinched than normal. Dr. Jannisari was a woman, the first to join the council of scientists at the university. She had fought long and hard for her own mind to recognized beyond the more feminine areas of weaving. And, because of that, she was often taken a little less seriously, she thought. If only she were a man. Her only consolation was that she did wield enough power to have those dying of disease delivered to her - if they were already on the cusp of expiring, then no one cared if she took them for her own. And she took; Jannisari took what was given her, stretched out her greedy fingers for any and every crumb, found ways to gain more, more, more. She had a duty, as a scientist, as a researcher, to take everything she could get.

The bells stopped chiming and, in their silence, she found no solace. A new year, the same her, the same college, the same students who only half-cared about learning. Sometimes, she thought she lived for the curious ones. Sighing, she stood, blowing out her singular candle. The smoke of its death lingered, cloyingly. A dim darkness blanketed the room, muffling steps, causing strange shadows to line her walls like the ghosts of the people she could not save. Her blue eyes dulled, grew heavy. For every failure, someone had died because she had not yet found a cure for their disease. She could feel it then, coating her worn hands - their blood, rich and heavy with plague, with infection. She was not fast enough. And she tried, each day, not to let herself dwell on it, but at times, it snuck over he like some familiar, but unwanted, cloak, damping her enthusiasm, faltering her steps. Her fingers traced the wood of her heavy desk, the scratches, burns, cracks all a testament to how long she had tried. It was not enough, it could never be enough, but like a dog, teeth clenched around some unidentifiable bone, she would not stop. Her research was important. Head held high, she moved towards her office door, feet sure and silent. Her robes rasped against the cold stone floor. It was time to check on her little rabbits.

Leaning briefly against the door frame, she coughed into her hand, a wet sickly sound rising from deep inside Jannisari's lungs. And she ignored the dark spots of red that marred her hand. Dr. Jannisari had much to do - every moment was precious.


((yes it doesn't count but shhh I really wished to write her new year >_> ))

[ Tweedbank, Scotland - World of Warcraft ] [ 17:16 ]

Al shoved his books and papers into his messenger bag and put it on the hook by the door so he wouldn't lose it in the morning, no matter how hung over he was going to be.

He grabbed his coat, then a bottle of something from the kitchen, and went up the stairs to his bedroom.

He flipped the switch, revealing his room to have an entire wall of naturally decorated terrariums that varied from tropical on one end of the room to desert on the next. Inside each tank was a different species of reptile or insect and the distinct sound of crickets chirping suddenly ebbed into silence at the sudden light in the room.

Thankfully they had already all been tended for him, as well as his room which was impeccably groomed under someone else's care. He threw his coat over the back of his chair and set his bottle down on a side table. He pressed the on button to his PC and slumped into his chair while it loaded everything up.

He was soon met with a start screen and grabbed his headset and slid it on. The rich thumping music flowed from the earpieces the moment he pressed "Play". After all these years, it still got his heart thumping along with anticipation.

He selected his main character, a female bloodelf warlock thoughtfully named "Alette" after himself. As soon as the game loaded him in, he checked his friends list. A few guild buddies were on, along with a few RP friends but who he was really looking for...

He PMed them; To [Sahrelian]: Hey man! Happy Hogmanay! What you up to?

[ Lawton Oklahoma ][4:45]

The pressure on his leg, the lightly dancing fingertips - it wasn't unexpected. Peyton was sex and wild impulse rolled into a pretty package. Even they way they'd met - a random hook-up in one of the few clubs in Oklahoma that didn't suck - was impulsive. (That club had still sucked, but he'd been there to meet strangers and not think and had succeeded on all accounts.)

"Oh? I think you can-" His grin turned devilish and he reached up to press his thumb against her bottom lip, forcing her mouth open just a bit. "-be a little more creative with that mouth, can't you?" He knew she could and she had. If he had both hands free, he'd yank her hair, twist it back so he could see that slim column of her throat better. But he didn't. Instead, he reached down between them, hand wandering before he clicked open her seat belt.

"I don't think you need this for now, do you?"

[ The Pink Elephant, NYC, NY ] [ 10:25 PM ]

The music was loud just like it always was, but tonight it felt even louder. The crowd was young and chic, the men dressed to the nines and the women looked like movie stars -- in Paige's mind, at least. She hadn't been working at the joint for long -- seasonal help and she needed the extra money -- and it never failed to shock her silly when she watched the upscale patrons come in and spend their money on booze, music and the filthiest dancing that Paige had ever seen.

She ******** loved it.

There had been one woman she'd been eyeing on and off all night - a ******** powerhouse bombshell, all long legs and hair and lips. She had skin that made Paige's mouth kind of water and eyes that held a sort of keen intelligence that drew Paige in.

Not that Paige would ever have half a ******** chance, but it was fun to pretend.

She watched the dark-haired woman roll up to the bar - feline grace, a burst of expensive perfume combined with cigarette smoke - and grinned as she came to a stop right in front of Paige's section of the bar.

Like a ******** belated Christmas present. She'd been a good girl, Santa baby, promise.

"What you drinking?"

The question was spoken loudly, but the music was loud as ******** and made Paige's blood almost vibrate as it pulsed through her veins. Paige leaned across the bar, hand cupped to her ear as she waited for the other woman to answer.