fuckitybye

Claire, you all right?

Listen, I want to work out some shit here, and I feel like a right fucking arsehole trying to say it, so I'm going to write it down. ( behind a cut, for language and length )

[And Malcolm Tucker disappears. The entry is left public because he carelessly forgot to set his filter before he started writing. Anyone who comes to his room will find it empty. Feel free to spam it up in here.]

[Anyone on either side of Malcolm's room (level 7, room 5) will have heard him crashing about in confusion—door opening and shutting a few times, occasional expletives as he goes back through the archives and discovers how much time he's lost, etc. Then he posts the following text entry.]

How the fuck is a man supposed to know what's going on and make any fucking progress when he keeps involuntarily fucking disappearing like a fucking B-movie plot device?

[Private to Claire]
Back like a fucking bad penny or something. How you been, love?

[Private to Damon]
The fuck? Last time we talked you were saying you didn't know anything about Rex getting his arse killed, and now you're confessing?

What the fuck else is going on here anyway?

[Filtered to the infirmary staff + Claire, Paddy, Rube, Parker (i.e. the people he sort of almost trusts).]

Is there anything at all in the fucking infirmary for a migraine? I feel like sodding Riverdance is stamping and kicking its Hibernian way through my fucking skull.

[OOC: What's this about? Well, perhaps the current general election in the UK (and the corresponding one in his native canon, which will no doubt be closely based on the one in the real world) is sending some kind of psychic fallout across the multiverse, and it's giving Malcolm a big headache. Unless a current copy of the Guardian somehow appears in the library, there's no way he can know about either the real election or the TTOI one, but it seemed only fitting that he react somehow. Infirmary staff, feel free to use this to bully Malcolm into coming in for a checkup.]