I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi lingers a little to the side, steam curling up from his coffee like it’s trying to escape before things get weird. He cradles the cup in both hands—not for the warmth, really, but for the excuse—and keeps his shoulders turned slightly away from the camera setup like proximity might invite participation.
He glances up at the sound of a slap and a hiss, catching the moment Ronin’s hand is swatted away by the blonde. There’s an easy rhythm to them already as they trade banter and camera slaps like they've been at this for seasons. Maybe they have, Remi wouldn’t know. He’s the new guy, after all. Just the on-screen medium, with the accent and the cross and the suspicious tendency to be right about what’s lurking in basements often enough to have been hired after appearing in just a few episodes.
Looking down again, he slips his phone from his pocket. He’d read up on the place last night, of course—pages deep into badly formatted blogs and paranormal forums where punctuation went to die—but he types it in again now as if something new will pop up. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be caught standing there doing nothing while everyone else has a job and a place.
The screen casts a soft glow up into his face, catching in the curls that have fallen loose across his brow and drawing pale green from the shadows of his eyes. It outlines the slope of his nose, the dip of his mouth, before spilling down to where the thin gold cross hangs steady against the charcoal grey knit of his sweater, half-tucked beneath a light jacket that still smells faintly of smoke and detergent.
He sips the coffee—still too sweet, still not quite what he meant to order—but it gives his hands something to do while he waits.
He glances up at the sound of a slap and a hiss, catching the moment Ronin’s hand is swatted away by the blonde. There’s an easy rhythm to them already as they trade banter and camera slaps like they've been at this for seasons. Maybe they have, Remi wouldn’t know. He’s the new guy, after all. Just the on-screen medium, with the accent and the cross and the suspicious tendency to be right about what’s lurking in basements often enough to have been hired after appearing in just a few episodes.
Looking down again, he slips his phone from his pocket. He’d read up on the place last night, of course—pages deep into badly formatted blogs and paranormal forums where punctuation went to die—but he types it in again now as if something new will pop up. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be caught standing there doing nothing while everyone else has a job and a place.
The screen casts a soft glow up into his face, catching in the curls that have fallen loose across his brow and drawing pale green from the shadows of his eyes. It outlines the slope of his nose, the dip of his mouth, before spilling down to where the thin gold cross hangs steady against the charcoal grey knit of his sweater, half-tucked beneath a light jacket that still smells faintly of smoke and detergent.
He sips the coffee—still too sweet, still not quite what he meant to order—but it gives his hands something to do while he waits.
but there's a light in the attic and I swear it's calling me
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
