Room 317, Tuesday night

[notmyownage]

Claudia came back from the causeway looking the very definition of downtrodden. She'd spent all day trying to book a trip to Geneva without having to be rerouted through places of which only Azerbaijan even sounded familiar with no success, and now Scully was stranded in Baltimore instead of back in the dorms where she damn well belonged.

She made it back to her room just in time to hear her phone beep. She pulled it out, found a number that more closely resembled an IP address than anything phone related, and frowned. She hit play and listened to the message.

When it was done, she stared at her phone. "WHAT THE HELL," she told it. "PHONES ARE NOT FOR TROLLING, DICKBAG."

[ooc: establishy but also open should anyone want to stop by.]

Comments

[chief-cheerio.livejournal.com]

"Are we shouting at phones now?" Quinn asked, from her spot on her bed. It looked like she was goofing around on Facebook; in fact she was making a list of every single person no longer in her friends network.

The sarcasm was her defense mechanism, and she'd be damned if she let the cracks behind it show.