Come Thursday afternoon, tucked into the PO box numbered 240 in Emerson's Holloway Hall, two postcards have been delivered. Both are addressed to Jamie Madrox, though one is considerably in worse shape than the other. That one battered postcard - creased, worn, and a corner torn - bears the image of the skyline of Sydney, Australia and a flourishing font which reads 'Welcome to Sydney!' On the other side, scrawled in hasty but legible print:

Hey, Madrox. Don't know how good I'll be at this postcard thing. I'd say 'wish you were here' or 'miss you' but, uuh... Hope you're doing well. ~ B
P.S. Sorry about the 'card. It kinda went through a little ordeal.

The next, edges still crisp and new, presents an image of a tall and lean temple, the facade a mosaic of foriegn gods and goddesses. Liner notes on the opposite side mention it being a Hindu temple in Singapore.

HA! Damn, you wouldn't believe how hard it is to find a friggen mailbox. I'm doing good, having fun, just got here a week or so ago. It's kind of weird writing to you... Anyway, I'm looking at Hong Kong next maybe. Or Cambodia just cause of the name. It's great how wide open this world is. I hear America's a mess right now. Hope you're alright! ~ B


Across the city, in West Greenwich, another delivery has been made. Somehow, someway, speckled with colourful foriegn stamps and rerouted from Xavier's to land in the box of apartment #1400, is a brown package. Addressed simply to Rogue, it bears no return address, though 'CAMBODIA' has been stamped in red in the corner of the box.

Within is a well-kept, neat fold of green material. When removed, the item proves to be a well-loved jacket, an X crossing over the chest, from one side to the other. The jacket smells faintly of something exotic, and neatly pinned to the breast presents the reason why: a pressed flower of the orchid family, stark white save for goldenrod stamen. Attached is a small scrap of parchment.

You may need this more than me. The memories of you mean so much more. You're still in my thoughts. I hope this finds you well. Wish you were here. ~ B

What if Cassy and Blindspot had run away together before the safehouse incident?

( 'It'll get better, one big score and we'll be fine.' (Cassy) )

When any calamity has been suffered, the first thing to be remembered is how much has been escaped. ~ Samuel Johnson

( OOC Explanation )

( Blindspot's Song – mp3 and Lyrics )

Done. Perfect.

( 'The world's a massive place.' (Madrox) )

( 7.27.06 )

OMG OMG OMG WTF??

( 'Because I want to be something special for you too, like you've been for me.' (Madrox) )

Theorems suck, juice is refreshing, Emma and Shaw are confusing, and then there's a *blip!* WTF, Madrox? Amazing? Last time I give you a closing pose!

( 'Pretentious. Nibbles.' (Piotr) )

Blindspot meets a big Russian dude waiting in line, like people do, at Emerson's registrar office. They talk about pretty things. And pizza.

( 'I don't think /nightmare/ was the word you were lookin for.' (Madrox) )

In which a blushing Blindspot is enigmatic and Madrox is multiple. Oh, AND A PERVERT. Are they dating yet? I don't even know.

Though the apartment has been occupied for a month, it remains unintentionally minimalistic as far as furnishings. The couch and entertainment center seem swallowed in the large, inoffensive cream-coloured apartment - the twin-sized bed suffering the same fate. The living arrangements are immaculate save for the hunch-backed tube of white fluff with beady eyes that dashes about the room with wild exuberance. The ferret's owner watches the erratic boundings with a quiet fondness, though the slump on the couch suggests one being too dispirited to join in any such feistiness. Her eyes drop to the wrinkled notepad on her lap.

( 7.11.06 )

( 'You wanna start your own life, stop fuckin wit' other people's.' (Remy) )

Blindspot and Remy meet in the park, chase one another around, and blame each other for various things. Blindspot is called a bitch in a different language. :( She is pathetic at this whole revenge thing.