chasingtwisters | Been tearing my seams. {Open}

In the wake of the Crabs attacking the beach (and Moira still can't believe that's not a euphemism), especially during the End of Summer Bash, has left the place a complete wreck and covered in trash. And considering how just about everyone in her life is, rightfully, admittedly, pissed off at her, Moira is out in the sun, doing her part to help clean up the debris. She's both utilizing actual trash bags and using magic to get the job done, making sure to leave everything thoroughly looked over and tended to. It hurts, to see the beach in such a shape. But not as much as her own life hurts currently.

She figures, if no one wants to talk to her except to yell at her, the best thing she can do is to be of use, if not to her family, than at least to the town. She's been up since dawn, throwing up violently, even with the new tinctures and potions she's been trying; she'd made her way to the beach then, throwing herself into helping with the volunteer efforts. She's going to find a way to make things right, she tells herself. She has to. And so far, she's been keeping at her work, undisturbed by anyone.

She'd stupidly forgotten to cast a glamour on herself, to avoid the obnoxious press.

She regrets it the moment the woman steps forward and shoves the microphone in her face.

"Moira Coombs! What do you have to say for the fact that you look like the spitting image of your ancestor? Planning on cursing any other towns soon? Is it true you disappeared in conjunction with your mother to help her leave the country?" The reporter's voice rings out like nails on a chalkboard.

Moira pales, wondering how her unfortunate discovery about Viviana could be found out so soon; she internally curses when she realizes how foolish she'd been to come out without a disguise.

She wishes she could say something in reply; she wishes she could tell the buzzard to go fuck right off into the ocean.

But all she can do is wince, before turning and running in shame.

OOC: If your character hasn't gotten a chance to tell Moira how much of an idiot she's been, here's your chance! But she can also really use a friend right now. And, of course, people she doesn't know are always welcome too. Catch her running from the paparazzi who's just discovered that Moira is the spitting image of Viviana Coombs.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Shitting paparazzi."

Luke doesn't has to put two (paparazzi) and two (familiar Coombs gene) together to recognize who barely walked into him. And here he was, trying to be helpful with the automatized grapplers he's been working on through the morning. No bending necessary, just let the thing recognize the trash and keep a bag nearby.

"Careful before you break something. They'll circle you before you know it."

"Yeah, I know," she says with a pained smile. "I'm sorry for almost running into you, by the way." That's when she sees the technology by his side. "Huh, that's really neat."

"I think you had a valid excuse." He offers her the grappler. "Less bending over means less back pain. And I have nine others in my bag."

Luke looks back to check if his back is still there. "And my bag is still nearby, so I think I can say goodbye to this one."

"That is so cool," she says, genuinely intrigued by the devices. "Do you work for any sort of tech company? Because you could do some serious business with stuff like this." Moira, as a witch, and especially as one so invested in water, finds technology fascinating in the sense of a foreign language. She doesn't speak it, but she admires it all the same.

"I do. Or did. On a paid vacation right now, and I'm not sure if I'm going back. Tinkering with real things is much more fun than it is with the virtual. Although I'm not knocking the money maker, of course."

He smiled, glad he could distract her a little. "It's really laziness I turn into convenience though. Not different from a collecting spell or something."

"Well, I hope you can continue doing what you love," she says with a soft smile. "It's awesome that you enjoy working with technology. God knows I don't have the patience for it."

"Cooler, though," she points out. "Collecting spells can...go awry."

"It's a gift", he smiles. "And the stem of a collecting spell, combined with a radar for lifeless subjects and a scanner for how trashy it is to make sure I don't lift anyone's beach bag. It was a quick fix, I'm sure it could be better."

"Well, I think realizing there's always room for improvements means you're damn good at your job," she points out with another smile. "I'm Moira, by the way."

"Luke. Nice to meet you, Moira. Let's ignore the circumstances in which we meet to not soil the memory."

He should have made a bigger robot. "That's a nice thought." And the grabbing hooks were a bit sad as well.

"I like the sound of that," she nods. "At least it's a nice day out?"

"One of the things I'm glad to be back, the weather has been amazing."

He looks at her. "Good of you to not just hide away, if I may say so."

Corry's had enough of paparazzi eating her alive for a lifetime. As a matter of fact, the Coombs incident is the first thing that's gotten them off her back since the kidnapping. And nothing incenses her more than seeing them prey upon a vulnerable victim.

She's gathering up some of the waste on the beach, particularly that nearby her property, when she sees the vile reporter swarm Moira as Moira flees. She dives in between without hesitation.

"Leave her alone, you vulture! God, have you no scruples?!" Of course, Corry knows they don't. They turned her personal trauma into a circus ring. Turned her to the bottle as much as the blood red carpet itself. They are a necessary evil she's come to accept, but Moira never asked for this. "Here, take a break from her. Focus on something else!" She angrily runs her fingers through her hair. "Look, you can get first scoop on Corrine Flynn's drastic makeover. Is that worth anything to you?"

The pap obviously had enough on Moira, because she grabs her camera and immediately starts shooting Corry, still red faced with anger and what will clearly be demonized on the front pages next week. She'll survive.

"You didn't have to do that, Corry," Moira says, approaching the other woman gets her shots and scurries away to write whatever sensational story will sell the most copies. "But thank you."

She ought to be used to the negative press by now; it's been surrounding her her whole life. Not to the extent that Corry is used to, by any means, but ever since the deaths of her father and uncle, Moira has had reporters inquiring after the curse enough to drive her up a wall.

Today, she'd rather shove them all into the ocean.

"So, they're a fun crowd, huh?" She asks, trying to lighten the mood.

"It's no problem." Corry glares down the pap as she scurries away, then smoothly brushes her hair back into position. "I'm still a celebrity, right? Any press is good press." And she knows the latter isn't true, but to be off the pages would be an end of her existence too, as a celebrity. So it is a necessary sacrafice. At least she had some say in it this time.

"Bitchy vultures though, trying to pick you clean. Screw them all." She takes a long look at Moira, then pats her softly on the cheek. They don't know eachother well by any means, but there's a bond there, nonetheless, surviving tragedy and the ravenous press. "How are you holding up honey?" Corry takes a step back and smiles. "And feel free to not answer that if you don't want to."

"I really appreciate it," she says, staring after the retreating paparazzi with her own glare. "That's...an optimistic way of looking at it, I suppose. But the world could always use more optimists."

Moira normally would pull away from such a touch, but in the state she's currently in, she could damn well use it, and so she smiles in response. "I've been better, I'll admit. I've made some pretty shitty choices lately, and I'm currently reaping the benefits."

Been tearing my seams. {Open}

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