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7b17f1.jpg
Moon Fluff
7b17f1
>>912701
The morning fog dissipates as you write in the dream journal. You keep it brief and simple, keeping to the details, and sigh as you finish the page, flexing your hand to work out the ache from writing. A thought strikes you, and you look through the other pages - only to be greeted with a load of gibberish. Well, not entirely - the dates are legible, and the shape of the writing - not paragraphs, but lists - is intact. But the words mean nothing, even when you squint. For example:
%&^$*$^$ BET %%$^#*&@^ -> &%*$&$^#$^ LOSS
%&%&*#$* BET *%%&$*& -> ^&%&$*&%&* WIN
GAINED &%^%$^#$^
%%^$%&%& BET *(%*%*%** -> &%*&%&&%$ WIN
GAINED %*%*%($$($
$%*$*$&# BET (%R%*%*($ -> %$*%&$&*#$ LOSS
And every page is like that, over and over, all the way to the very first page, which is a bulleted list. RULES is at the center top, so clearly it's a list of, well, rules. For what? You don't remember any of this. Will the teacher accept it at the end of the month? Who knows. Clearly you thought so earlier, but you can't remember writing in it. Only that you had the assignment. The handwriting - what you can parse - is yours as well. Besides. You've more important things to worry about - there's a test today, you think, in your mathematics class.
You are Nanashi Clarke - a half-Japanese transfer student to an American school. As your name implies, you were born in Japan, to a Japanese wife of an American military officer. You're aware of some sort of scandal surrounding the matter, but it was resolved, mostly, before your birth. You take after your mother far more than your father, but you liked the idea of the transfer program. It would be interesting to learn more about your father through his culture, as often as he is away. Indeed, you're often left to your devices, thanks to earning the trust of your parents at an early age. You never really minded - Isolation never bothered you all that much, and habit left you jogging to school. It isn't far - barely a few miles - and the run wakes you up.
It's a beautiful day, even in mid-November. Almost no traffic, making the run relatively quiet. It isn't long before you approach the school - a big, blocky, old building that has seen many renovations, none of which did anything for its appearance. You don't even really recall the name, it's just The School. And as you approach, you find yourself smiling, because Jennifer is there. You were surprised to find her the first time you ran to school, and the two of you hit it off as fans of various 'occult' rumors. Things like Ouija Boards, stuff like that (Though she would be hasty to state that one should never use one of those boards, as it is dangerous in so many ways...) and tabletop games. She'd always struck you as the mousey sort. Big sweaters, heavy cargo pants, thick glasses and a scarf. Though she always bundles up, according to your other friends - as if she's trying to hide in her own clothes. You don't blame her. She's not exactly a socialite princess.
"Clarke!" she jumps up, green eyes wide. "You're okay."
...What?
>"What, did you hear I was hurt or something?"
>"Yeah, I'm fine. Hey, do you know anything about this?" [Show her the dream journal]
>"So do you remember what's on our math test?"
>"[Something Else]" Not all writeins will be accepted even on majority.
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