Foolish Red-Haired Girl

It was a little bit disturbing that the entirety of what Claudia knew still existed of the universe consisted of the school grounds. There was something deeply existential about it, and she was starting to get a little bit afraid to blink, for fear that the rest of the world would disappear entirely and she'd wake up in a mental institution back in Minneapolis or something.

She was also getting very curious about the force field and how it functioned to hold back the Nothing that surrounded them, however precariously. She knew going outside was dangerous as hell right now, but if she could figure it out, maybe she could at least jury rig something together to help shore the thing up. So there she was, several feet from the edge of everything, with a big bucket of miscellaneous objects, food-stuffs, and charge generators, throwing them at the force field and watching them disappear from existence.

She'd managed to determine conclusively that if you threw stuff at the force field, it disappeared. She was about to embark on a circuit of the thing to test for weak spots when she tripped over the slightly exposed root of an otherwise non-existent tree. She flailed for balance, one of her finger tips just barely grazing the force field.

Anyone else observing might note that if you threw Claudias at the force field, they disappeared, too.

[ooc: NFI]

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.]

Claudia wasn't getting out of bed today for love or money. She felt like death warmed over. Like even more death even more warmed over than when she was having her life slowly drained out of her by her connection to her brother's failed attempt at teleportation, and that was hard to do. Maybe she'd managed to electrocute herself a little while playing with the rock, after all.

So, since she'd clearly managed to catch creepy Massachusetts death flu or something, she decided she deserved to have a day of lying in bed.

Then she noticed the spots where her skin was going thick, gray, and scaly. Within minutes, she was calling Artie -- while still lying in a little cocoon of blankets hidden away from the world at large. So, you know, naturally she got his answering machine. Not even voicemail, an answering machine. It was like Artie was from the stone age.

"Hey, Artie, it's me. Do you know of an artifact out there that inflicts the heartbreak of psoriasis on people?"

Blame it on an artifact. The Warehouse's own Occam's razor.

[ooc: Door is closed, but the post is open!]