Donald
[The Campsite...]

◆ "Jeez Louise, I burnt right through it!... Ouch."

□ Was it worth burning a hole in his favourite pair of lacy tights, wedding whites so elegant and angelic he damn near melted from happiness every time he wore them out and about? Debatable. What wasn't debatable, though, was that it had happened, and where there was once a handful of clean potassium metal, a puddle, and pristine skin, there was now an upwelling of steam, residual candlelights as tiny chunks reacted with the damp spring air, and a burn mark on his thigh that would definitely be there in a month's time as a kickass scar.

▪︎ Of course, though, now he had to *Tend* To his wounds, and what better place than by the campfire?

□ Struggling to get the fire going initially due to the oddly humid chilly air, after about ten minutes of sprinkling low-grade gasoline onto piles of sticks and birch bark he managed to get it going, and as soon as the familiar whoosh became steady the firebug in him came out in full force. Digging out a can of Spam and a loaf of locally baked bread, this joined a bottle of yellow mustard and a fresh pack of smokes, and once he'd lit one he propped it betwixt his lips and began to pry the lip off of the tin of Spam. 

• It was late, dammit, and he wanted to cook something over a fire; where else would he be able to find decent food at this hour? It was past midnight, for Christ's sake, no joint was open that late and still allowed teenagers to walk in.
Nicholas
Midnight. 80% of the city was asleep, yet the city was still lit up, nightlife taking over and artifically lighting up the streets and buildings that comprised of the city. Even Newton had some sort of nightlife; the occasional office, lab, or dormitory light still open lighting up the otherwise dreary place.

But no, Margarita wasn't part of the nightlife, for she had stretched up and over the towering wall and headed to her personal campsite, her attention brought towards it from a quick messaging spree in the intranet with the one and only Silas, whose figure was very apparent against the bright campfire, a dot of light in the middle of the quiet Saedish forest. Stopping just behind a tree, the mischievous, and frankly annoying, side of the rubber band commanded her arm to quietly slither towards him, and just right after he pried open the can of spam wrapped her arm around his torso and arms, essentially trapping him where he sat with four or fige coils of her elastic limb.

"So, what the hell are *You* Doing here other than make something explode in the damn forest?" She questioned, her head positioning itself in front of Silas as her body remained behind, leaning against a tree like a teapot while her (literal) rubber neck connected her seemingly floating head. Her arm had to be at least seven metres long while her neck covered at least five.
Donald
◆ "...Fuck."

□ Cracking the top of the Spam can off, he was about to shimmy it out one inch at a time before, out of the blue and not without warning, a lasso of parahuman origin whipped out from the darkness, ensnaring him where he sat. Letting out a defeated groan, he looked over his shoulder, the dart dangling precariously from his lips, and he soon saw his close friend emerge from the darkness, though not at all once. First it was her head, then the rest of her body, and said head was now face to face with him asking what he was doing out so late.

▪︎ Good thing he had a good response in mind.

◆ "Scandinavian Mommy Summoning Rituals, that's why I'm out here." He quipped, still gripping the can of Spam in his hand. "Ever heard of 'em? You just walk into the woods any time past midnight and start screaming and crying like a baby and some eight foot mother spirit'll come take care of you." He continued, oddly serious despite how clear it was that he was joking. "God knows I could use that, I hate offloading all my troubles onto you, mate, so here I am... Yeet. What'cha doin' out here?"
Nicholas
Haha.



"It's my campsite; I went here thinking I'm gonna tie my limbs around two of the trees here and chill exactly like a hammock, but I guess I'll be freeloading onto your food then."

The rest of her parahuman body walked forward, her arm and neck shortening with each step as her head still remained in front of Silas. Once her body did manage to not stumble on its way towards Silas, she sat down and completely unwrapped her right arm from Silas to allow him to eat the food he had been probably waiting to eat for an hour or two by now.

...

"Hey, what happened to your leg?" She noticed the burn by now, and the teen's rubber neck dove down to let her get a better look, despite her 20/20 vision. What the hell did he get himself into this time?
Donald
◆ "Nah, it didn't work. I mean, you're here... God heard my wishes for a tall mommy and –" He cracked into laughter. "He sent me a headache! Hah!"

□ Snickering as he delivered the line, he didn't bother moving whilst his torso was wrapped tight like a burrito. After all, Marge was surprisingly strong even while outstretched like a tendon, and he was comparatively somewhat weak, so all he could do was fiddle with his can of Spam. "Yeah, I know, but shit, it's yours; mi casa, su casa, right? I think that applies here." He chuckled, neglecting to take any time to address how smoothly the Spanish had rolled off his tongue.

▪︎ A moment of silence followed as Marge made her way closer, and once he was freed from her grasp he began to slice the meat into planks.

◆ "Potassium explosion." He spoke with an amused undercurrent. "I took about an ounce of the stuff from the lab – we got a fresh order the other day, so I don't think Ollie's gonna notice – and I chucked it into a puddle about... I dunno. Over there?" He snapped finger guns out of his right hand and pointed into the darkness, in the general direction of where his explosion mischief had come back to bite him. "I'm just miffed, y'know? I love these tights. It's gender euphoria in its purest form, and now I'm gonna probably have to buy another set, and... Fuck. Not looking forward to middle aged homophobic women giving me that stare of *What are you doing here, faggot?* Which."

• "I should be used to it by now, but nah. Still hurts. I still got a little bit of potassium if you wanna go find another puddle to blow up. Want a spamwich first?"
Nicholas
"Hey. I'm both tall *And* A headache!" She 'angrily' retorted, breaking character as she snickered alongside him.

"*Si, grazie*." She replied, assisting Silas in preparing the food now that both of her limbs were, to the accepted human norms and medical standards, 'normal'. Her neck wasn't, however, since while she did retract her arm completely and let go of her British friend, her neck elongated just a bit more until it was wrapped around him, her warped vertebrae and whatnot resting atop his shoulders like a living, breathing scarf.

"On one hand, you're a moron for doing that. On the other," She interrupted herself for a second as the scarf-necked human rubber band pulled the bread out of the bag, setting four of them atop the (supposedly) clean plastic bag. "-how dare you not telling me you were going to do that; you should've waited for me!" She annoyingly but jokingly exclaimed, tightening her neck's grip around his for a second just to elicit a sudden response, much alike punching someone lightly on the arm. "It's not everyday someone gets to throw an explosive into the forest, damn..."

"Honestly, I'm super envious you get to rock femme clothes better than me. I'll take the L and cope, I suppose." She replied. "And hey, if someone *Does* Tell you that, just take a pic of their face and show me so I can drag them into an alley and give them what they deserve, yeah?"

"And a spamwhich, why not?" She replied. Her arm stretched around and beyond the fire to grab some flammables to keep the fire alive with. Some people, other fellow parahumans included, could only wonder how this girl was completely fine with her neck serving as a scarf for a friend, unfazed with her body's new, rubber-like physiology. The answer? She wasn't sure either, but good Lord was it handy and convenient.
Donald
◆ "Exactly, you fuckin' string bean!"

□ Laughing, the bubbles rose out of his throat and into the open air for a few good moments, before feeling himself be released and getting to work setting a small pan over the fire. Held up by, of all things, a gutted barbecue grill he'd found in a dump just outside of Isakstad, it was definitely janky yet surprisingly effective. Slicing planks, he chucked them in one at a time into the oiled pan, the sizzling mingling with Marge's voice, though her voice had also shifted direction. A weight draped itself across his neck, and he knew what it was. Rather than comment, though, he simply raised a hand and rubbed the base of his neck.

▪︎ It was a clear tell that he felt as if he'd made a mistake.

◆ "Yeah, my bad. Shoulda let you know. But, hey, I still have a bit left, and even a tiny amount of this shit explodes, so..." He paused for a sec. "We can chuck the rest into another lake once we're done eating. Anyways, honestly, you could pull it off too, mate. Like, no cap, I think you could pull it off, you just sell yourself short for some reason. Just... Be easier on yourself, huh?" He raised a hand and booped his friend's nose. "Also I'm kinda just living it up before twink death kicks in in my twenties and I stop looking so cute. Or, well... Nah. I'm not cute, fuck am I talkin' about?'
Nicholas
"Ah, don't apologise, I'm mostly kidding *Mio amico*." She immediately reassured, not minding his hand that lifted a section of her hyperelongated neck slightly as he touched his.

"No, *No*, no, I can't! Last time I rocked a skirt it looked so ugly I just spent the rest of the day with cycling shorts and my jacket wrapped around my hips." Her eyes blinked and her head was pushed back ever so slightly with the nose boop, Silas busy with the fire and food.

"Nah, you're not fucking dying a twink death you cute half-wit." She replied, her stretched arm coming back to her with its also stretched fingers wrapped around two large branches, perfect to add to the fire once she had shaken the snow off of it. "If need be I'll wrap you the fuck up so that you at least have a life-saving cushion."

She rapidly wrapped her neck around his body twice and squeezed him slightly as if she was hugging him. Well, she hoped it counted as a hug as her neck retracted back to scarf-length.
Donald
◆ "That's fair, I guess." He shrugged. Marge knew her body better than he could ever claim to, so her perception of what looked good and what looked terrible would always be, by default, more accurate than his. "Though, gotta admit, I, uh... Not exactly cycling shorts, but the ones girls wear for volleyball? I tried some on once and how do you chicks move in that shit? Like... Christ, I felt like a badly rigged animation model from like 1997."

□ Fuzzy voice ebbing and flowing as the words slipped from his tongue, he began to move the slices of luncheon meat around the small cast iron pan he'd bought at a local market. The beauty of such a pan was that, with a bit of good storage, it could last forever, and thus as long as he kept it wrapped good he could just leave it at the campsite for whenever the woodland snack urge hit. Watching as his friend tossed a few branches onto the fire, his cheeks began to blister with heat, compliments pelting him like freezing rain, albeit compliments that somewhat misunderstood his initial point.

▪︎ For a few moments, though, he kept his gaze fixed on the campfire, hoping the sunset glow would hide his blushed cheeks.

◆ "Oh, twink death isn't *Actual...* Y'know, death. It's more of a phenomenon that happens to us twinks in our 20s or early 30s, and it's when we lose a lot of our effeminate charm. But, that being said..." He trailed off for a moment, mulling the words in his mouth. "Thanks. Nice to know *Someone's* Got my back. Anyways, uh... How crispy you want your shit?"
Nicholas
"*Si*, you know, the short ones. I don't feel comfortable wearing just underwear underneath a skirt, you know? It feels... Odd." She answered back as she nodded, which really was just bobbing her head up and down beside his. Her slouched back would be a concern for some, but she was probably *The* Only girl in Sweden if not the world who could have her neck snapped and her knee bent forward and still snap back completely fine; a bent back was nothing.

Pliability did have its perks, after all.

"Oh, sorry, I might've misunderstood." She replied, suppressing the urge to touch his wound just to check on it. Still, she was easily distracted by the fact that Silas brought a whole-ass pan with him out here. "But still, knowing you and your chemistry lab habits especially with whatever the fuck you did just now, the point still stands." She pulled Silas in by retracting her neck ever so slightly and ruffling his already messy hair, not that anyone would notice.

"You're fine with the literal neck scarf, right?" She said, lengthening her neck out more so that her face would be positioned again right in front of him instead of beside him.
Donald
◆ "Yeah, I'd imagine." He nodded. "Makes a creep's job way too easy. But this ain't about what's under your skirt, it's about, y'know... Volleyball shorts. Spanx. Whatever they're called. They're a thing of beauty on someone else, but me? Shit felt too restrictive."

□ Letting himself relax a bit more into the half-hung embrace, he continued to flip the luncheon meat one piece at a time, even seasoning the pieces a bit once they were mostly cooked. It was a pretty peaceful night out, without a doubt, and in good company he felt he could have spent the entire night out here, eating fried spam sandwiches and chatting shit with Marge. An odd scene to come out of a prison, sure, but that was just life at the Cradle; penitentiary in name only, it was perhaps the oddest spot on this side of the Atlantic, a place where criminals and the falsely accused got to mingle and become better people side by side, a place of almost total freedom.

▪︎ What a place.

◆ "Hah, true. You aren't even wrong; honestly." Rather than bring down the mood he let out a soft giggle as he was pulled in closer, his messy twin-tone hair ruffled lightly by his good friend. "But then again, chemistry's at its best when there's some sorta risk, y'know? Least, far as I'm concerned it's just not the same when it's totally safe. Anyways, yeah, the neck scarf's fine, mate. I don't mind it."
Nicholas
"Yeah, even with the short shorts it felt... Ugh, I gonestly feel more comfortable going out with just the shorts, ya know?"

Watching Silas cook was... It made her cringe slightly, unfortunately,so much so that Silas would've felt her neck tighten around his. "Silas, no offence, but is *This* It? I mean... No disrespect, but are you toasting the bread as it is?" Just as quickly she had jumped him, Margarita sent an arm around the camp fire to grab the plastic bag and sift through its contents for anything, *Anything* That she could put on the bread while it sizzled on the pan.

Letting her neck slink back to its normal proportions, Stretch pouted in slight disappointment as he began heating up the bread *Dry*. No butter, but at least there were extra condiments. The cuisine part of her Italian herifage spoke loud in her head objecting to whatever the hell was going on, but to be honest, spam and bread with cheese and a bit of mustard might be better than it sounds. Plus, this was an evening escape and not a picnic, so other than the lack of anything to toast the butter with, she was otherwise fine.

Still, that didn't meant she couldn't stare at the fire and think about her life too. For he rubber band so far, the cradle had beenban opportunity she initially hated it, but one that she embeaced now that it proved to be a positive nudge in her life. She could only wonder who she'd still be if she was still in her honetown doing what she had to do, but... Oh well, if there was any time to separate the "Real" Margarita, the one her parents and Cradle friends new from the "Old" Margarita whose bag was filled with white bricks, it was now.

"Right, right." She replied, her attention coming back to her British friend. "I mean at least it was fun, right? The uh, sodium-exploding type shit."
Donald
◆ "Aye, fair." Silas nodded. "Also, what's up? Feels like you're trying to go all boa constrictor on my neck, you good?"

□ Tone affecting itself slightly, the sudden and brief sensation of knotted muscle against his sensitive neck hinted to Silas that something about this whole situation – sat by the campfire, searing Spam in canola oil, talking about shorts and a lack thereof – had caused Marge to cringe. Whatever it was, his self-awareness heightened itself, and in the back of his mind the archivist within began to jot, taking down notes of whatever he couldn't see or hear in his friend's disposition and actions.

▪︎ As it turned out, though, Marge was just concerned that the food seemed plain; British lineage haunted even the biracial souls of the Isles.

◆ "Yeah, that's about it. Cheese, ballpark mustard, pickled relish... I can toast the bread. Might be more burnt than toasted though, unless the fat from the Spam's enough." He began to lift the meat from the pan, setting it atop a piece of slate dug out from a nearby hill. Laying some bread down, he tried his best to not wince as it began to smoke fierce almost immediately; he'd have to toast it like tortillas. "It was, though. Fuckin' love alkali metals for just how explosive they are. Like... Seriously, mate, you scrape a screw against sodium and toss it into a lake and bam! You're in business. Good shit. Though, honestly, I think my favourite chemical is *Still* Fuming nitric acid. It's just plain fun, y'know?"
Nicholas
"Oh, no, nothing, it's just... *Fried bread*... I can go get butter from Newton's if you need it. You need it, right?" She asked, with a hint of concern. Out of everything one can show or talk to about Margarita, it wasn't her elasticity, or her religion, beliefs, or even her crime that struck a nerve, it was, of all things, food. *Food*.

"Nothing." She exclaimed, rubbing the nape of her now-retracted neck. "Really, it's fine. Except that I can't believe I have to teach you how to cook food at some point, because... I..." She motioned her palm at the bread. "I need to fuckin' teach you how to make *Zeppole*." She finished, squinting as she tried to read the ingredients label of the relished pickles against the light of the fire. She didn't know either what was interesting about it, but she always read the ingredients list. Maybe it was curiosity, or she was just interested what kind of stuff she puts into her body.

"It's fine, though, really. Don't worry about it too much." She answered quietly, stretching her left hand arm behind Silas and grabbed one of the scalding-hot slices of spam off the slate and ate it as it is. "Fuck, I kinda forgot how good spam is, *Gesù Cristo*." She continued, listening to his chemist escapades. "Do you get high off of nitric acid or what?" She snickered at her own stupid joke, almost dropping the slice of hot spam sandwiched between her flexible fingers.
Donald
◆ "And by the time you get back the Spam would be cold." He retorted, albeit softly. "Just toasting this bread like it's tortillas on a plancha. Might be a bit of an offense to your Italian blood, but... Bloody hell, mate, I was raised in Britain, I've had mouthrot since day one."

□ Chuckling as he disparaged his homeland and its cuisine, there was a brief moment of wondering *Why* He was doing it. British food, at least to him, wasn't the worst thing in the world – or, at least preferable to the cafeteria's food. Was it to fit in with the common opinion of England? Or was it maybe just for fun. Whichever. Lifting the first pieces of bread off, they were most certainly toasted, burnished crispy surfaces perfectly suited to the craft of sandwich making. Slapping down a healthy amount of mustard and relish onto one end, he began to slap pieces of Spam onto the prepared bed, damn near licking his lips.

▪︎ Without much hesitation he took a bite.

◆ "Mmm... Good shit. Anyways, the fuck is zeppole? Sounds like a gourd full of gonorrhea." He snickered. "But for real, I usually cook better stuff than this, I'm just... Y'know. Cooking over a bloody fire? Like, not much pretty stuff comes off a campfire." Kind of a lie, but... He's British, what does he know? "Anywahs nitric acid is crazy shit. It's not a particularly strong acid, but it's a crazy good oxidizer when you purify it a bunch. It's actually what I use as one half of the rocket fuel I use in my own little experiments. It'll also straight up light most lab gloves on fire, so that's freaky."
Nicholas
"Ah, that's fair... And you know... Calling it a tortilla made it slightly better to think of." She yawned for a second, putting her hand up to signal that she still had something to say. "Oh right, you're English. That makes more than enough sense."

"Hah." She silently snickered.

Tiredness had begiun to kick in, and while she still wasn't going to go to bed and doze off, she still had to find a way to relax a bit more instead of sitting with her back bent like a shrimp. So, Margarita leaned against a busy Silas, wrapping her arms first around his shoulders, but it'd become quickly noticeable that Margarita's arms were snaking around the rest of his body a few times, lengths of her arms slithering out her jacket sleeves. She would've wrapped his arms up as well, but she wasn't going to ruin food, no, so she let that one slip. By the end, boh of her arms were wrapped at least thrice around him, her hands laying limp on the side as she trapped Silas in what she called a 'hug'.

Funny name.

"Gonorrhea- Silas *Se ti sento ancora chiamare uno dei migliori cibi del mondo "Gonorrea", ti strozzerò con un braccio teso finché non mi chiederai scusa.*" She threatened, but it was clear she was kidding. "But yeah, uh, a *Zeppole*, it's a pastry food where you deep but lightly fry some dough and fill it with... I don't know, whatever you'd like; vanilla, cream, *Cioccolato*, you know. Best thing in the world."

"Ooh, sounds fun- nevermind, hah." She let her neck slowly stretch out so that she can watch the food get cooked and prepared from a better angle. "You're still onto that rocket thng, huh? Isnit going well so far? It's been weeks since you started that shit."
Donald
◆ "Yeah, aye." Silas nodded. "Makes it a bit more palatable or some shit. I dunno."

□ Busying himself with the bread over the fire, Silas' lazy brown eyes watched as the bread toasted off rapidly, going from pillowy and soft to crunchy while still possessing some give, and once it hit that point he immediately evacuated the bread slices to that same slab of slate. As he could have expected, Marge began to wrap him up in a cocoon of limbs, something he'd grown used to over his time at Newton's Cradle, and thus he leaned into the so-called *Hug* As well.

▪︎ Finally, he had all the components for his sandwich. Pog.

◆ "Yeah, I'm still on it. It's a hobby at this point, something to waste time while I'm stuck here." He shrugged, slathering mustard onto the bottom piece of toasted bread. "Also, I barely understood a word of that, but I'll just assume it's Italian culinary gibberish; you folks are good at saying a lot of shit while also saying nothing at all." He joked, in good nature. "Anyways, your bread should be good soon, mate."
Nicholas
"Hah, no, I was threatening that I'd choke you if you call Zeppoles 'a gourd full of gonorrhea' again." She explained, even teaching Silas a bit of Italian as she explained what some of the words like 'chiamare', 'migliori', or 'braccio'. "I'm kidding, by the way. No, I won't coke or queeze you; you've got notbing to worry about bud."

"Hey, at least you've something to do than use your own butt as a pillow while reading some James Patterson books."

Once one of the sandwiches were done, Margarita stretched out her arms just a bit more to grab the sandwich and take a bite from it, refusing to let go of Silas from the net of limbs that trapped him.

And the thing was,

It isn't half bad on its own. Margarita's eyes widened as she complimented the sandwich. "Hey, this isn't half bad, what the fuck though." She commented in a positive manner, taking another bite just after.
Donald
◆ "Aye, caught the very faintest gist of that. Just because Spanish and Italian are kinda intelligible doesn't mean I understand half the words that come out your damn mouth." Silas laughed, clearly lacking in malice as he spoke. "But, shit, you use your own ass as a pillow...? Sublime. Probably pretty comfy."

□ Surprisingly, his teenaged mind didn't even veer towards the obvious places it might have for others. To him, Marge was a close friend at this point, someone he saw as more of a chosen sister than a friend he'd take the opportunity to do nasty stuff with, and thus all he thought of in the aftermath was the bread in the pan. Taking the other slices out, he continued to assemble his own sandwich, alongside his friend, who seemingly found it to be rather good.

▪︎ Surprising, but appreciated.

◆ "Right? Guess even us Brits occasionally come up with bangers; gonna give that credit to my Mexican half though, I'm not that bold." He snorted. "Anyways... Enjoy, huh?"
Nicholas
"Hah, don't worry, I was just threatening that if you called a Zeppole 'gonorrhoea' again then I'd choke you with one stretched arm." She explained light-heartedly, also devoid of malice.

"Ass, boobs, torso... Shit I've used my own neck as a pillow and it still worked." She replied, taking a bite of the sandwich held up by her hyperelongated arms. 

"I mean... The full English breakfast looks fucking amazing, and fish n' chips are good for its sheer simplicity. Otherwise, stop committing carbicide and put something else in that diet, hah."

"Yeah no I'm enjoying, *Grazie*."

And the two of them sat there, one of them busy assembling a sandwich while the other ate one, her limbs wrapped around the other like a ishing net holding onto its haul. It's a peaceful night, and Margarita completely enjoyed it with a friend.

*This* Was a good night.