fresh_hell_dating

config.style.dark.page.color: "salmon on black" config.style.dark.page.link.color: "red-3" config.style.page.color: "gray-6 on pink" config.style.page.link.color: "red" config.style.page.link.font: "none" flirting: 0 good_joke: false bad_joke: false showed_muscles: false impress_violin: false die_hard: false -- Your socks are damp and sticking to the floor. If you pay more attention than is wise for your sanity, you can feel the sticky wetness seeping through. Your feet should be turning cold, but the thin layer of oxidised muck lining the floor, seeping from the encrusted walls, is actually *warm*. Which is so much worse. You decide to focus on the silver lining. As it were. Hutchinson has stopped to take a breather. She wipes the pale pink goo off her forehead with her only slightly cleaner forearm, an action which results in a marginal net decrease in the amount of bloody goo on her face. She is very careful not to lean against any of the grasping walls, and simply rests the fire axe against her shoulder. She left her jacket behind, earlier, so her toned forearms and goo-encrusted shirt have an attractive 'Die Hard' (1988) look to them. [[Well, no time like the present.]]

A task which would be easier if you had a violin with you, rather than being chased through a nightmarish abandoned hospital wing by a fingery amalgamation of thriving flesh. But nonetheless. "Honestly, as tough as things are right now," you say lightly, "it's got nothing on the time I had to prepare Korsakov for a crowd of five hundred people with two days' notice. Now *that* was terrifying." Hutchinson quirks a smile at you. "Yeah? What did you play?" [[Antar]] [[Scheherazade]]

bad_joke: true flirting: flirting + 1 -- "So what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" Hutchinson smiles crookedly. "Besides saving your life, you mean?" She smirks mysteriously. "Afraid that's classified." She has a very Cool Job and is normally above rubbing it in people's faces, but you've given her an excuse. She's trying not to enjoy it. "Not even a hint? Don't I get some kind of special privilege for finding this thing and reporting it to you?" "A special privilege? Like a *finder's fee*?" she snorts. [["I'm not exactly asking you to *name it after me*..."]] [["Yes, exactly like a finder's fee. I want ten percent of all profits your agency makes when they put that thing into a shatter-proof tank and start charging admission."]]

good_joke: true flirting: flirting + 1 -- Easier said than done. The best ones come to you in situations of life-threatening peril, apparently. You could always trying going back down that shaft again, to the bottom level— You purge that train of thought before you start to hyperventilate, and try a different tack. She likes puns. Can you think of any more puns? [["God. I didn't think the stench of this thing could get any worse, but it smells like an ol' factory in here."]] [["Do you use body spray? You seem like an Axe kind of gal."]]

Maybe shameless flattery is the way to go. "Die Hard? Really?" Her mouth quirks, she's fighting back a grin and sizing him up and down. "Can't say Bruce Willis in that movie is really my *type*. Or in general. Military guys, cops, they're tough and impressive, but usually no fun. But if that's what you're into, suppose there's no accounting for taste..." Perhaps you should have picked a less confusing example, gender-wise. Although that *is* useful information you've picked up there. What *is* her type? Well, evidently not *that*. [[Compare her favourably to Sarah Connor]] [[Compare her favourably to Ellen Ripley]]

die_hard: true flirting: flirting + 1 -- Hutchinson blushes slightly. Or maybe the goo of severed finger mulch is slowly turning more vivid on her face. Did that one actually land? "Did you know that movie was basically all practical effects?" she supplies; a tiny peek of nerddom is showing. She seems to realise that herself and her face slips back into her usual nonchalant reserve. "Yeah, I found out about that in a director's commentary edition," you answer breezily. "It's only too bad they had to undermine Ripley's success with the other two movies." Hutchinson wrinkles her shapely, grime-stained nose. "I liked the second one, but they should have left her well enough alone. Let her win! And then let someone else take the wheel. They wrote a female action hero once, they could have given the lead to someone else. It's not exactly *lightning in a bottle.*" You nod along feministly. "And can you believe they're making a *fourth* movie?" you say. "Same lead actress, too, or so I heard. What else is there to say? I mean, geez, what are they going to do now that they've killed her off? *Clone* her? They're just going to undermine everything the story was about." You bond over your shared pessimism for a bit more. {link to: 'Well, no time like the present.', label: 'Flirt some more'}

She rolls her eyes. "Ugh, the melodrama," she says. You have an inkling she's referring to the first movie. She may not have seen the others. Abort! [[Compare her favourably to Ellen Ripley]]

Hutchinson looks back at you expectantly. A strand of hair dangles down the side of her face, and her fingers drum restlessly against the handle of the axe. [if good_joke === false] [[Tell a good joke]] [if bad_joke === false] [[Tell a bad joke]] [if showed_muscles === false] [[Show off your muscles]] [if impress_violin === false] [[Impress her with your violin skills]] [if die_hard === false ] [[Compare her favourably to John McClane]] [continue] [[Make a move]]

showed_muscles: true flirting: flirting + 1 -- You consider finding a way to flex, or at least something you could do to clear up the (correct) impression she has of your civilian-typical puniness. It's no use. She climbed up that shaft without breaking a sweat, and pulled you up *with* her. She'd probably bench-press Cthulhu for breakfast. There is nothing physical you can do to impress her at this early stage. You play the violin, remember? {link to: 'Well, no time like the present.', label: 'Flirt some more'}

In the right light, you could construe the situation the two of you are in as *romantic*. This is definitely not that light, and in fact, the less is said of this particular light, the better, but opportunities must be seized where they arise. [[Gaze meaningfully into her eyes]] [[Brush a lock of hair out of her face]]

A lesser-known composition, and the mythology behind it is more obscure. Supposedly an Arabian tale, though the amount of Arabian in its source is questionable. A hermit in a desert experiences a strange dream in which he meets a fairy queen, whose life he saved in waking when she was roaming the world in the shape of a gazelle. He loses himself in her rewards until he succumbs to anhedonia, and in her arms, beset by her passionate kisses, he passes away. Hutchinson's eyebrows climb higher as you recount the mythology, then talk about the technical challenges of that particular piece's string section. By the time you're done, she's holding back a smirk. "A bit of a downer," you joke, towards the end. "But what a way to go!" "I'll say," Hutchinson says dryly. And then: [["You do research on the *lore* of all the things you play?"]]

Most people have heard of *that* one. The Sultan's wife, a storyteller who cheats her way out of execution by spinning tales so wondrous and so incomplete that he simply cannot bear to have her put to the sword as he did all the others. The romantic allegory is obvious, even if the lead characters are not going to be winning any 'couple of the year' awards. Hutchinson is grinning. "I guess the Sultan and I have something in common," she says. "Because I hate cliffhangers too." And then: [["You do research on the *lore* of all the things you play?"]]

Well... yes. You like to delve into the little details of the pieces you play -- who composed them and when, what their historical influences were, the fairytales and legends they tried to translate to a very different kind of language. If you were giving an interview you would say that you think that the extra bit of research makes you better at performing them. Infusing them with the right amount of artistic intent. You are not giving an interview, though. [["Yeah, I just think it's neat."]]

impress_violin: true flirting: flirting + 1 -- She laughs. "For a second I thought you were going to say something awfully boring about how it makes you a better musician or something." Whoo, bullet dodged! "I think research for its own sake is a good thing. More people should try to preserve knowledge even if there's nothing in it for them. And documentation. Documentation is very important." She suddenly looks very serious again. {link to: 'Well, no time like the present.', label: 'Flirt some more'}

She snorts out a pained laugh. You're in some amount of pain yourself. That was *almost* clever, but not quite. The result is almost as agonising as stepping on the rusty nail that landed you in this location. No, more so. Speaking of that nail. You really need to remember to get an *actual* tetanus shot when or if you get out of here. "An old factory of *what*?" Hutchinson giggles— no, surely she would not *giggle*. "Fingers, apparently," you say helplessly. "They're fabricating fingers. Fingbrication, if you will." There is nothing more you can do to salvage this particular joke. But at least she laughed? {link to: 'Well, no time like the present.', label: 'Flirt some more'}

Hutchinson actually groans. "Yeah, but don't worry. You're safe as long as you stay downwind." She hefts the fire axe again, testing the swing of it in her grip. You catch the drift — you'll probably need to stand back again when she resumes the *hacking*. "So is this some kind of coping mechanism, or do you just like wordplay in crisis situations?" she asks. "Well, I *do* like wordplay," you say. "In crisis situations or otherwise. You do crosswords?" Her eyes light up, but she bites her lip. This is a woman who may be slightly too intense about crosswords, and fully aware of it. Something for later. {link to: 'Well, no time like the present.', label: 'Flirt some more'}

Hutchinson makes a noise of genuine horror. Her eyes take on a thousand-yard look just for a moment. "You know, that actually makes me feel better," she says. "I don't doubt it," you say proudly. "As much of a bureaucratic, dysfunctional *mess* as any 'agency' can be..." She shudders. "At least we don't do *that*. Can you *imagine*?" You smirk at her. "So there *is* an agency?" Hardly some unprecedented bit of high-value intel you've fished out of her. You got her here by calling a public payphone, after all. But you'll enjoy your little victories where you can. She gives you an appraising look and says nothing. {link to: 'Well, no time like the present.', label: 'Flirt some more'}

"Good, because we have a *system*," Hutchinson says. "It's going to get a very boring name, like it *deserves*." "A *system*?" You're intrigued now. "A system for categorising and naming things like *that*?" And who is *we*? But you know better than to push your luck by asking *that* out loud. Hutchinson smiles again and shakes her head. "You're better off not knowing," she says. Considering what brought her here today, you sincerely doubt that. But there is a finality to the way she says it, so you don't push it. {link to: 'Well, no time like the present.', label: 'Flirt some more'}

[if flirting > 2] There is a stray bit of dismemberment juice clinging to a strand of hair that's broken loose of her no-nonsense ponytail. You smoothly produce a napkin you found in your back pocket, dab the goo away, and brush her hair behind her ear. Hutchinson watches you do it with calm amusement. "You had a little something there," you say brightly. "You've still got a lot of something, actually, but let's be realistic." "Yeah," she agrees. "I've still got a *lot* of our path to clear before we see fresh air." Fresh air. God God, you've never missed it as badly as you do now. [["You want to get out of here?" she says, hefting her axe again."]] [else] She grabs your hand before you can get close. "At least you've still got all your fingers," she says, letting you go a moment later. " You stop to absorb that in horror. You've been so focused on the threat of death that it never occurred to you -- you could have ended up like those poor bastards next to you in the waiting room. Your hand maimed. Probably never to play the violin ever again. Thank God you dodged *that* bullet. {link to: 'Well, no time like the present.', label: 'Flirt some more'}

[if flirting > 4] You look at her, really *look* at her. Hutchinson meets your gaze and holds it. Casually grasping her fire axe, her face speckled with bits of foreign flesh and her bare arms streaked with grime up to the elbow, she looks improbably alluring and incredibly at ease. She's in her element, here, somehow. What a life she must lead. It would probably be saner to run from it screaming and never look back, but... [["You want to get out of here?" she says, hefting her axe again."]] [else] Hutchinson looks a little worried. "You feeling okay?" she asks, sizing you up and down. Maybe instead of soulful interest, you're looking a little concussed instead. She does touch you briefly on the arm in comfort, though, which is a measure of success. {link to: 'Well, no time like the present.', label: 'Flirt some more'}

You nod and step back to a safe distance again, mindful of the *walls* in all their gory glory. Maybe this kind of delay wasn't the best idea, but she needed a break, and you needed a breather to collect your wits. And make terrible flirty jokes, apparently. "Not much further," Hutchinson says encouragingly. "Three more flights of stairs, and then the roof, and then we call this in and *wait*." You're relieved to hear that, and it takes you a second to figure out *why*. It's not the obvious reason. Yes, sure, you're getting out of here soon — you hope — but it's the *waiting* part that's suddenly got you all giddy. You were so *sure*, up until a minute ago, that getting to that roof would be it. She'd send you off immediately and disappear into some ominous van with tinted windows and you would never see her again. Catching you staring vapidly, Hutchinson throws you a grin. "Maybe we'll get lucky and rate a helicopter." A helicopter! How *romantic*. Well, that's something to look forward to. END