Siren's Pull

[ greetings, siren's port. Dave appears on camera via the extendable arm on his iShades, and he does not look—well, okay, he's as expressionless as always, eyes hidden behind red glasses and his lips pursed into a thin line. his attire is different this time, though; there's a rather snug red hood pulled up over his head, attached to a rather medieval looking set of time pajamas. ]

Canada again? Seriously? The fuck did I do to get cursed with this. It wasn't bad enough to stick me on a meteor flying through space at a rate of a million goddamnits per minute and force one of its shittiest inhabitants to be obsessed with never leaving me alone, but then to top it all off I go to sleep and wake back up in Canada. The only way I can tell it's not a dreambubble is by virtue of nothing I could witness in my sleep being quite as shitty as this place.

[ he says that, but there's not all that much conviction in his voice, honestly. in fact, for all intents and purposes, he's pretty quiet, more like blandly grumbling to himself than actually bitching at the camera.

there's probably a reason (or a few reasons, for that matter) for that. ]

What fucking day is it even? Or what year, christ. Last time I was here it was two-thousand-whatthefuck and I was magically older than all my friends because Canada and time are about as close friends as Eminem and Shaggy 2 Dope. A—

[ but wait! what is that in the corner of the screen? whatever it is, it's approaching fast and Dave hardly has time to register it before it's leaping into the air and sprawling mid-jump and full-body crashing into him with a girlish shriek, sending the view of the camera whirling: the red of his outfit, the black of hers, a flash of white, then blue sky, sky, sky... and the pavement. which Dave's face hits hard at a rate of a millon goddamnits per minute.

CRUNCH.

off goes the feed. ]