Baby It's Cold Outside


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Scene Title Baby It's Cold Outside
Synopsis With Cardinal hidden in shadow at their heels, Kazimir and Raith are warmly received at Svartalfheim by a dapper British man and his giant metal llama. Once the prestigious nature of his guests has been established, he even invites them to stay the night in the Presidential Suite while they all await Iago's return.
Date December 18, 2009

Argentina: Svartalfheim

This morning, the intrepid trio largely self-nominated to scale Cerro de Hierro Negro in search of a bunker with a name that is difficult to pronounce awakened to the sound of thunder. Not the rolling, rainy murmur that so often haunted their traipses through the subtropical jungle far below, but the the intestine-wrenching, blood-pounding roar of a detonation much more tangible and much more terrible. Not a bomb, but an avalanche — the first of three, in fact, to resonate off neighboring peaks as the bone-aching cold of night lifted away into the tenuous warmth of ten and eleven AM. Things have quieted since then, and seem likely to stay that way.

The rest of their trek has been uneventful. A single sentry passed them on a nearby path once, either without recognizing them or without caring. The buzzing of a million furious bees in its engine case came and went, hardly pausing at all. There has been no violence, there are no more snakes, and no rain. Frigid wind and occasionally snow-slick rock aside, things have been quite nice for Cardinal, Peter and Raith.

And now they've arrived.

Sort of.

The first evidence of habitation they discovered was a twelve foot, perfectly round blast door wrought into a sheer wall of seal brown rock. No cracks, no visible locking mechanism, no sound eminating from within. No tracks going in or out. No dice at all. Eventually they were forced to move on, and it it is on a sparsely grassed and forest-fringed plateau where the unforgiving incline of the mountain levels into something nearly lax that they find Hector.

He is taller than usual on account of the fact that he is standing at the peak of makeshift scaffolding meant to level with the skull of a gargantuan metal scythe-legged llama, and he is wearing a fine black suit that is likely less resistant to the sparks flowing forth from his welding efforts than the goggles he is also wearing. The sentry appears to be 'home' in that its eyes are alight with greenish fury and and there is a faint buzzing in its razor-edged ribs, but it is seated back upon his haunches and utterly impassive to the miniature rocket launcher being secured to the ridge of its shoulder.

Entirely independent of liquid metal drizzling and skipping down down to meet its snuffy doom at the hand of snow scattered sparsely at the scaffolding's base, there is an honest-to-god llama half-heartedly chewing its cud a short ways off in its own little world. It is white with brown spots, as llamas sometimes are, with dark eyes and long ears and cloven hooves. Perhaps it's here as inspiration.

When the trio's leader emerges from his hiding place behind some rocks, Raith's not exactly sure which off the two is surreal. The welding man working on his L-800 Model 101, or the actual llama that seems perfectly happy to be here. Or maybe it's the fact that, despite wearing the cold weather gear he was provided with, it's still a bit chilly around the face. For a few seconds, he simply watches the scene in front of him, and then looks behind him to Peter- to Kazimir- as if to ask what he makes of what's in front of them. Raith is at a loss. So they just walk up and say, 'hello?' Maybe it's best to let papa Volken handle the diplomatics.

Snow crunches underfoot behind where Raith has made his approach. Kazimir has been silent ever since they reached the snow-line on the mountain. No longer burdened by a heavy backpack, he has traded all his combat gear for a stylish and well-cut black suit. Despite the chill of the winds whipping across the mountaintop, he seems unphased, and in a way this is much how it always was. The heavy black woolen longcoat that is buttoned up over his suit, collar raised, is all that protects him from the arctic frost of this mountainside.

Dress shoes slide just a little in the snow underfoot, black leather gloves gripped ona rocky outcropping as he pulls himself up, a huff of steamy breath swirling around his mouth as the scaffolding, machine and the goggled man spot-welding a rocket launcher onto it comes into view. There's a look of sheer disbelief in Kazimir's eyes, staring out at the skyline beyond the welder and his mechanical creation, then slowly pulling his focus back; first to the actual llama and then to the man working on the machine.

"Braxton?" Kazimir takes crunching footsteps past Raith, as if this were all somehow perfectly normal all of the sudden. "Braxton, is that— " voice hitching in consideration, Kazimir comes to a stop several feet from the base of the scaffold, flakes of snow frozen in dark hair and dusting the shoulders of his woolen jacket. "Is that you?"

Hopefully he's talking about the man in the goggles, not the Llama.

"What the bloody hell is… is that a… rocket launcher?"

The words are a low, disbelieving hiss from Peter's shadow, which is not of course Peter's shadow but is instead Richard Cardinal, who apparently has mistaken 'Petrelli' for 'Pan' from the looks of things.

As 'Kazimir' heads forward, however, the shadow falls silent lest he give away the position.

…a rocket launcher on a robot llama?

There's a spit, flicker and halt about the torch Hector's wielding between thickly cuffed gauntlets and then the sunlight — harsh at this altitude despite some cloud cover — glances sharply off the black of goggle lenses rounded as if to match the open blast door (this one some thirty feet across) that gapes cavernously over the left flank of this clearing. It's almost as if circles are a theme.

Supervillains have them sometimes, you know.


Anyway, 'Braxton' has swiveled his head hawkishly down and aside to register not one but two intruders and is very busy looking puzzled by their existence. Brows knit over dark lenses, wide jaw set in a baffled aside behind the faintly ~ginger~ brown of his goatee, he stands there with his torch and his gloves and his goggles and…twists his torso to look over his shoulder, back towards the blast door. There is no one milling around in the great cavern that stretches beyond. Nor is there anyone else in the clearing. Save Jeff, who cannot be bothered to notice that they have company at all. He lifts his tail, shakes it, and does a poo.

Its more monstrous metallic cousin is at least slightly more interested. A pair of the corded wire tentacles suspended from its open throat undulate half-heartedly. The head turns a few degrees on its axis.

Hector turns back to them as well, largely for lack of anything better to do. Mum's not home. He's not supposed to answer the door. :<a

"'o the fuck is asking?"

Raith elects not to get involved in this particular mess, yet. Kazimir started this, and he can damn well finish it. His attention is focused much more intently on the robo-llama, in any case. It might, you know, do a poo as well, and who knows what will come out if it does? Bullets? Missiles? More llamas?

Calm dawns once more on Kazimir as he has a moment to become adjusted to the maddening scene displayed before him. As if he belongs here, there's a slow stride up towards the scaffolding, an assessing stare offered to the writhing tendrils of wire and metal reaching out from that skeletal head, then blue eyes leveled back to its creator. "I figured you may be happier to see me alive, or at least perhaps Iago will." A furtive look is cast around the mountainside, then towards the blast doors, and back again.

"It's been a while, Braxton, and your greeters were a bit more violent and… metallic than last I was here." Pausing, Kazimir turns to regard Raith over his shoulder. "I don't think you've had the pleasure to meet this one. Jensen Raith, Iago should remember him." Blue eyes dart back to the craftsman, "Jensen…" A gloved hand beckons Raith forward, either perfectly sure this is going to work or simply trying not to be freaked out. "I'd like to introduce you to an old friend of mine…"

"This is Braxton H. Pendragon the Fourteenth." The way Kazimir says that with a perfectly straight face may well indicate that he isn't somehow making an ill-timed ironic joke. "Braxton, this is Jensen Raith." A gloved hand motions between the two of them, and then as if this were a casual lunch meeting he adds; "Is Iago home? He will be estatic I imagine."

Please, let this work.

The shadow that trails behind Kazimir remains silent, although in his mind, Cardinal's swiftly becoming convinced that this is all some sort of dream, or perhaps a practical joke. He keeps expecting a wall to be pulled away, and Edward to be standing there with a video camera. Gotcha!

Unfortunately, hope as he may, this all seems to be real.

Braxton H. Pendragon the Fourteenth makes a face. It's a subtle thing, and yet. Easily read from fifteen feet in the air. It is the look of a stoat who is being asked to kindly — if it would — waddle into a cage so that it can be made into a purse or something. Only the person asking is someone he doesn't know and also stoats don't speak English.

His goggles alone are impossible to penetrate, but unease is clear enough in an uncertain turn of his shoulders and a shift of weight at his feet while he watches Peter draw closer without giving a name. Nevermind that the black insinuation of one hangs as heavy in the air as his breath — it occurs to him that he is not going to be able to finish what he was doing and that he should probably free up his hands. Welding torch, gloves, etcetera are carefully shed in exchange for the woolen peacoat he'd slung over the far side of the railing.

Then he's climbing down, down, and still down more metal rungs down the scaffolding's side until his boots crunch into snow and he can regard Peter and Raith at — er. Not at eye level exactly but close. The wind blows and a cable twangs ominously in some unseen metal monster rigging and Hector eyes Peter in particular through his black goggles. The overall effect is one of unblinking distrust. And perhaps idle pondering over who's done his hair because the frost job looks fantastic, really.

"My name is Hector and this is my giant killer robot," he says to the both of them after a beat that likely has some intentional drama behind it. "So far as I know you were not invited. Please state your name and your intentions and maybe we can all have a tequila instead of…the robot destroying you," he circles a finger loosely to indicate the pair of ex-Vanguard as 'you,' "and only I have a tequila."

For a brief moment, Raith turns his gaze to Peter. Kazimir. That one dude. "New guy," he says before turning back to Hector. "Like the boss-man said, I'm Jensen Raith, but you can call me 'daddy, sir.' Explaining who he is might take a while, so why don't we have those tequilas now while we wait for good ol' Iago to turn up. You don't want us to tell him you gave the boss trouble, do you? That wouldn't be good for you."

The boss, as Jensen put it, looks at Hector in a way that seems somewhat confused. There's a snort from his nostrils, shoulder-squared posturing as he clears the distance by a few footsteps between the two, but hesitates on getting in arm's reach when he reconsiders several thousand pounds of blades and rocket launcher nearby. "Volken," Peter intones with a furrow of his brow, "Kazimir Volken." The identity is lad out with an expectance and entitlement, as if prepared for a fanfare of trumpets and a red carpet to be rolled out.

"Now you can either continue detaining me here in this god forsaken cold," his tone adapts more properly, enunciation better, less Peter and more him, "or we can go inside and I can refrain from telling Iago about how you made me wait out in the cold with promises of tequila and whatever that is doing." A gloved hand waves towards Jeff, who has beant his head down to sniff at his own steaming creation on the ground, as if proud of it or perhaps assessing its value in his mind.

This, Cardinal thinks, is immensely unfair. They get tequila, and he gets to know the exact tread of Peter Petrelli's sneakers intimately. While maybe Gillian would be thrilled by staring at his ass this whole time, he's rather less so.

Ah well. Maybe once he's inside and can snoop about, he'll find the liquor cabinet.

"Volken," is repeated at an aah timbre that may be legitimate realization of his grave error or dour mockery of awe such a claim should inspire if it is to be believed. It is very, very hard to tell. He smells nice, though, if any of their noses are tangible and/or unfrozen enough to notice. His robot sinks a few inches deeper into its sit while he sets to eyeing them, as if resting its joints. Or (this exchange entails many 'or's) preparing to leap upon them in a great slashing of scythes and polished fangs.

But. As neither of them have shot at him now that he is down here, he finds confidence enough to lower just one brow at Jensen Raith, opinion of the more gun tote-ier of his comrades easily read in that simple tilt. Assuming he is a comrade at all.

It's a brief skip in an otherwise reasonably unruffled record. He nods half to himself and glances to Jeff, who seems content to smell his shit and then go back about browsing at feeble grasses. "My mistake, sir. I'll just…ahh," he fishes a hand into his coat pocket as if after a set of car keys, and some ways overhead, the four-legged automaton's eyes roll a violent shade of red, "if you'll follow me. Iago's office is right this way. You look good. Younger. Nice suit for mountaineering. Very dapper." And towards the blast doors he heads, walking and talking and expecting them to follow as he hooks his goggles up off over his head.
Raith's attention tries to divide itself evenly between Hector and the robo-llama. That shade of angry red is all to familiar to him, and although he doesn't react to the change very visibly, it's still more than enough to put him on edge. Hopefully, all it means is they should take no hostile action towards Hector, and everything will turn out just fine. It had better mean that. Raith is a man of many talents.

Catching rockets with his bare hands and pitching them back is not one of them.

A wary look is offered to the eyes of the machine the moment they change color, and a few of the things that Hector said go completely past Kazimir as he looks back to the shorter man just in time to see him raise his goggles up over his head. "Unfortunately this form is one of necessity more so than choice…" Hard-soled shoes crunch the snow as he moves to follow behind Hector, hands folding behind his back. "Nearly finding my end in America did not come without certain complications that have precluded me from being able to… make my presence known." One darkly clad shoulder rises ina shrug, and Kazimir halts to turn and look back at Raith.

"The others, down below on the mountain, had no idea who was in their midsts…" There's a furrow of his brow at the consideration of them. "When we get inside I can show you where they've camped, I think they've made some sort of attempt to conceal the signals those ingenious traps of yours give off."

Picking up the pace again, Kazimir makes a move to come up at Hector's side in his stride. "That's quite the new wrinkle in your genius, Baxton." One daro brow rises, creasing the greivous scar across Kazimir's face, "I should have known."

Silent, Cardinal follows in Kazimir's wake as he tries to bluff the Vanguard into letting them in. At least, it'd better be a bluff, or someone's going to be very annoyed. Probably the people being attacked by giant robots.

Further unease manifests in a furtive sideways glance at the Kazimir who has fallen into step with Hector as he tucks his goggles away into his coat, and in they go through the massive door and into the hollow mountain beyond.

The rock trends towards a neutral shade of dark brown, and it's some time before the fog of their breath begins to fade against the vent of warmer air. Lights are strung yellow along the ceilings. No florescents in here. Very few people, either, from the look of things. There is little in the way of human detritus lying about — no tools or papers, and no bodies past the three of them walking along in the semi silence muffled by the passage of their footsteps.

"Nothing to know," seems uncharacteristically modest for him, and he doesn't look over when he says it, evidently preoccupied with keeping track of where they're going. He pays the little bird-like composition of twiggy steel parts that scampers tack-tack-tack at Raith's heels and occasionally between his feet no heed. Things are what they are!

Back outside, both llamas watch them go without taking action, the only difference between them (barring the obvious) being that one becomes distracted by grass and the other grates its skull into a security-cameraesque scan of the surrounding treeline.

"Nifty little setup here," Raith remarks. Nifty is, of course, the wrong word to describe it. Ideal might be better. One way in, door likely reinforced and designed to survive a nuclear blast, remote location. Almost unassailable. However Iago found this spot, he picked the location of his home base well. But getting a nuke in here? THat might prove challenging, especially if there really isn't that much more personnel around. Unless, of course, Hector's presence explains that lack of personnel. The thought of that is, unsettling, to say the least. Straight out of science fiction. "Geothermal?"

"Turbine too…" Kazimir notes with a wave of one hand towards Raith, "or at least the wind turbines were still up the last time I was here. They were a new addition, I can only imagine what could be done with them with today's level of technology." Kazimir's footsteps echo from the click-clack of soles on concrete as he walks, gloved hands once more folding behind his back as he moves, never to fall a single step behind Hector, but never venturing far enough ahead to make it look like he is leading. Not knowing where youa re headed and trying to keep a pretense of leadership is a precarious equilibrium to maintain.

"The power plant for the geothermal is a few floors down, if I recall…" Said sheerly for Cardinal's elucidation. "Despite how remote it looks, this place was at one time capable of aerial access via VTOL aircraft. I didn't see the airstrip on our approach, so I have to guess more than a few things have changed since I was last here." Blue eyes drift up to look at the yellow lights overhead, an idle curiosity as he walks.

"Iago is here, yes?" The isolation and emptiness of this place is beginning to worry. "While there are some matters I'd come out here in the hopes of discussing with you, Iago is the… ah, man of the hour as it were." A look, bordering on distrusting, is leveled side-long on Hector. "He is well, yes? Oiling that leg of his I hope?" Details, the devil's in the details. They have to be kept straight, offered up, dispel doubt.

Lost in furrow-browed distraction mingled with highly improbable deja vu while 'Kazimir' explains away, Hector has to shake himself out of tired nostalgia to indicate they should turn left with an outward swing of his hand on the same side. Left is the way. And it may merely be their collective imagination, but the lights seem to be getting further apart. The air is colder again as well. Just a touch. Enough, perhaps, to prickle the hairs on the backs of their necks when he leads them not into an office, but into a wide round room furnished with three barred cells. Though all three doors are locked, only one cell is occupied by the President of the United States of America, and it is to the President that Hector gestures next.

"Iago is here, just another corridor over, but first I thought you might like to see in person some of the steps we've taken on our own." Two more miniature raptors pace the floor in here, wedg-ed heads whipping 'round to take the three of them in before they go back about their business.
Gillian has reconnected.

A very large part of Raith's brain is ready to check out. He can believe that a man exploded and destroyed half of new York. He can believe that a man can fly. Hell, he can even believe that Agrabah is the city of mystery, of enchantment, of the best bargains and deals today, come on down! But the instant he realized he'd accidentally stepped on the set of a science fiction film, that was basically it for him. Especially when he realizes who is in the cell in front of him. Let's review.

Jensen Raith, ex-CIA agent, is standing next to a man possessed by the ghost of a dead Nazi with a living shadow, after they walked up the side of a mountain infested with killer robots to an abandoned nuclear missile silo used by a certifiable mad scientist as his secret lair where he plots to take over the world using science, and has kidnapped the President of the United States of America and is no doubt planning to use him as some sort of bargaining chip while they look for a missing nuclear weapon.

If he has accidentally walked onto a movie set, at least it's only the most awesome movie ever made.

That right there is right about when Kazimir checks out too.

Because that—


But how

"Nn— " athan almost finishes that abortion of a sentence. Kazimir's throat clenches tightly, brows furrowing and head tilting back, the gloved hands behind his back wring tighter together. There's a swallow of anxiety int he back of his throat, brows lowered and blue eyes affixed on the man in the cell. Peter is struck speechless at the sight, how did they catch him? Baffled confusion lasts only so long, can only last so long before it becomes unconvincing.

"You expect me to believe you just…" Blue eyes drift to Hector, "found him lying around like a droppet wallet?" One dark brow lifts up slowly, and Kazimir struggles not to look at Nathan's imprisoned form. Tries and fails. "That…" a gloved hand is waved towards the cell, "that is an imposter, clearly. Unless you managed to snatch him out of America just a scant month ago, then I have my reservations."

Offering another look to the man in the cell, Kazimir struggles to find his words. Lack of eloquence wasn't something very becoming of a man wearing a mask of the President's brother. "That's… very convenient. Is it a metamorph?" A look is offered back to Hector, "some kind of illusion?"

It can't be Nathan.

Can it?

Slowly. Slooowly does it, does Nathan lift his head when there's something worth listening to, and blink owlish brown eyes towards the barred door and take in the sight of the three men, one of whom he expects, one he does not recognise, and the other—

The other one. The spindly, unmistakable silhouette of his little brother captures Nathan's unwavering attention, barely seeing Hector or Raith or even the metal bars that make patterns between himself the rest of them. His heart lurches sideways in his chest, and outwardly, he only looks vaguely sick with furious confusion dulled over his grizzled features. He stands, but does not approach, his shoulders rigid beneath stiff fabric of olive green and muddy brown, hands forming fists.

It's very convenient for Hector that everyone else here is either already behind bars or momentarily dumbfounded, because they probably won't notice him stepping carefully backwards behind them. One step, two steps, three, all the way back to the join of hallway and makeshift prison. Yellow pools of light are exchanged one at a time for the shadows pitted between them across his shoulders and through the mussily styled blonde and brown of his hair, but even in this context he's hard-pressed to pass for sinister.

There is dislike in his light eyes, but it's borne more of a cynical lack of patience than it is any kind of sadistic malice when he answers Kazimir with a succinct, "It's really him." His brows lift for a smarmier, "cross my heart," and he touches one finger deliberately to the key pad installed in the carved stone wall at this side. That is approximately all it takes for steel bars similar to the ones that comprise Nathan's cage to fire up through the floor and into the ceiling between him and them. A hydraulic hissss, another few tapped keys and a low grind of metal on rock later, they are locked quite firmly into place.

"Kazimir is dead and you have floppy hair." Tap tap click; one of the cell doors in the jail's interior glides open, allowing the pair of them access to the toilet and…hard wooden bench. In case they would both like something to sit on other than the floor or each other. "Breakfast is at nine. Iago will sort you out tomorrow. And if it really is you," no need to elaborate on that you, "I'm sure you understand, I was only joking about the hair, and it's very good to see you again, sir."

Once again, it's nearly impossible to tell whether or not Hector actually means any of it on his way to blending seamlessly back into the shadow that dominates the hallway beyond.

And then a cage comes down.

Kazimir jerks towards the sound of the grating bars, blue eyes wide and mind swallowing useless emotions and memories down as fast as Hector's likely to swallow down that Tequila after all this is said and done. He lunges at the bars, gloved hands wrapping around them as a pall of shadow falls over where he stands, a dimming of the lights, fingers wringing the bars, but there's nothing a life-draining touch can do against something as simple as a cage. He watches Hector's retreat, one hand slamming against the metal with a pang. "Damnit, damnit."

Snapping to look over his shoulder to Raith, Kazimir's expression is very much indicative of the don't even say I told you so sort. He hasn't even thought to address Nathan yet, hasn't thought to consider the man who is flesh and blood to this body. It's hard to.

Closing his eyes, Kazimir tries to maintain calm, tries to cool his nerves with the single solace that Richard is out there somewhere, gathering intel. When his eyes open, they're leveled at Natham, brows furrowed and scar creased between them. He swallows, dryly, and forces down an awkwardly timed smile.

"Funny running into you here."

The sound of the trap being sprung jerks Raith's attention away from Nathan and back to a more appropriate direction. He ignores the sci-fi script that says he needs to run up to the bars and impotently wrap his hands around them or hit them the way Kazimir does; that's stupid. It's not going to get them out any faster, anyway, so why bother? "There'd better be sausage," he calls after Hector, "Or very bad things will happen to your llama!" His rage vented, he too moves his focus to Nathan, perhaps in the hope that between the three of them, they can get out of this mess and into one that's more favorable to their goals. In a moment, at least. "I told you about your hair," he suddenly says to Peter, "We're in here because of your hair, I hope you realize. If you'd listened to me and done something about it, we'd be talking to Iago right now. I hope you're happy." And then, as if that was the final word in the matter, Raith stalks off to be by himself in as close to a corner of the area as he can, slumping against the wall and glaring at everyone and everything else.

"I hope you're happy too," he continues, apparently directing his wrath at Nathan this time, "You're supposed to look out for your little brother. How could you let him style his hair like that? This is as much your fault as it is his. Maybe even more your fault. I'm not talking to either of you anymore."

The display— from cage coming down all the way through to Peter flinging himself door-wards— is watched impassively, from Nathan's little corner of the cell. There's still a wall of bars existing between he and the quasi-Vanguard members, and its these he strolls up to, lifts his hands, and wraps fingers around. Raith is studies, for the first time, dragging a look over the man as if trying to identify him, before wandering his gaze on over to his scarred little brother, fixed for a moment or five on the bright lambently blue eyes in Peter's skull.

Then, Nathan smiles back, a shock of white teeth among the scraggly black of growing beard. "Likewise, Pete." His arms curl fully around the bars in a companionable lean, watching Raith go off on his tangent with an apologetic list to his head, a hand splaying, curling inwards to his chest; "I"ve always told him to cut it." It's then with no small amount of dryness that he addresses Peter once more. "So. My hero.

"What's the plan?"

Dark brows furrow, and Kazimir stares out between the bars, wingers wound around it with a creak of wool on cold metal. He breathes in deeply, then exhales a tired sigh before turning to look back at Nathan, giving Raith the cold shoulder the way a very patient parent tries to with a bouncy child in the back seat of a car wondering if they're there yet. "I don't think you fully understand what's going on here…" The blue eyes aren't his brother's, nor is the cadence of his voice, but everything else seems to right.

Leaning away from the bars, Kazimir wrings his fingers against his palms and then folds his hands behind his back, eyeing the way to the bench that was opened up. "We wait here for Iago to return, and I inform him on how poor of a decision he has made." Each footfall Kazimir makes on the way to the bench is a clicking step. "Failing his cooperation with that…" his brows tense, head tilted down as if trying to figure out what he could do next.

"Well, hopefully it won't come to that." He turns, just before settling down on the bench seat, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap and back straight. "So… Why don't you tell me why you," an incline of Kazimir's scarred brow is made towards Nathan, "look very much like this vessel's brother."


"I'm beside myself with curiosity."

Sticky note left on Iago's door to be found upon his return:


Petrelli's little brother is in the brig pretending to be Kazimir. He brought muscle. I've locked them in but they may have guns. I didn't bother checking, sorry. Told them breakfast was at nine but someone put the poptart box back in the pantry empty so hopefully you remembered to bring back groceries. I'm going to get drunk.


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