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?

[Audio. Malcolm's Glaswegian accent has thickened considerably.]

( Language cut. )

[Click. Audio off. He'll respond to anyone who feels like hassling him via journal, but some time later, anyone wandering up on deck will find Malcolm standing at the railing staring morosely off into the distance. In his left hand he clutches his useless Blackberry and this photograph. Feel free to come spam Malcolm and, if you dare, ask him about the photograph. Also, sorry for spamming with Malc posts this morning. Done now.]

Youth fucking wasted on the young my fucking arse.

[Private to Claire]
Did I fucking hear right? About the warden thing?