You check the clock. It dismissively reads back 13:06. Good, that gives you about 4 and a half hours before your next broadcast.
[[where AM I?]]Your room, of course. You haven't quite hit the lifestyle where waking up is a guessing game, but you've begun to consider it. It might add some excitement to your already overstimulating routine.
You decide to start with the basics.
[[Get something to eat]]
[[Look out the window]]
[[Check the mirror]]Whoa there, tiger. Let's put some pants on first. You don't want a repeat of last Thursday.
[[Go to the dresser]] <center><img src="https://backyardgrave.neocities.org/OTBB/013/p/p-01.gif"></center>
It's pitch black out there. I don't know what else you were expecting.
[[Check the mirror]]
[[Get something to eat]] <center><img src="https://backyardgrave.neocities.org/OTBB/013/p/p-02.png"></center>
That's you alright. It looks like you managed to get out of your dayclothes before passing out this time, which is a small victory. You'll take what you can get in that department. But you should probably get dressed before you go anywhere else. You know, if you're into that.
[[Go to the dresser]]Don't be ridiculous, your clothes are on the floor where you left them.
[[Well, most of them.]]You pick your glasses up off the nightstand, and the world starts to look a little more familiar. Your eyes protest the conflicting red and blue lenses at first, but get the hang of it by the time you're on your third or forth shirt button. You'd think they'd be used to the routine by now.
[[*Now* can we get breakfast?]]
[[Consult the mirror]]You feel like you're forgetting something, but you triage your needs and filling the hole in your stomach wins out over filling the hole in your memory. When was the last time you ate?
You decide not to think about it. Trying to recall what you did the night before was a slippery slope into regret, and so you've made it a principle to live in the moment. It's easier to outrun an avalanche if you don't stop to look over your shoulder.
[[Leave the room]]Still you, but this time with pants. Wait- hang on.
Your hair has the telltale kink of being forced into a ponytail after your last shower, and seems to be enjoying it's temporary freedom, falling around your sholders in an artificially blonde mess. You grab a hairband and pull it back into shape.
NOW you're ready.
[[...For what?]]You're immediately struck by a barage of sensory input, a solid testimate to the soundproofing of your door. The party never stops on-deck, and the strip of hallway that hosts your living quarters is no exception.
A throng of the rich and famous stretches in either direction.
[["Nice hair."]]Breakfast, apparently.
A wave of nausea hits you, and while you could blame it on the sight of your reflection, you're pretty sure it's just your neglected hunger turning ugly, rather than your outfit. Your critics might say otherwise, but you wouldn't want to put them out of a job. You straighten out your shock-orange shirt collar and snap your equally annoying suspenders.
[[Time to visually assault the masses]]The masses assault back. You exit the relative comfort of your room into a jumble of noises and colors in the form of a crowded hallway; the loud fashion of it's loud patrons warring with the equally loud decor.
A throng of the rich and famous stretches in either direction.
[[No, starboard]]It never does, as the primary job of the Hops are to provide a wandering food supply to the Guests: yourself included. There are no eateries, food courts, or kitchens to be found by the average patron of The Heights; only special occasions for special people serve sit-down meals. Such events are few and far between, fashionably unpredictable, and reserved by select invitation. You had to be rich, or lucky, and usually both.
Everyone else is subject to a 24-hour rotation of seemingly endless horderves, carried around on non-proverbial silver platters by the silent, uniform, uniformed staff ("Hops", so lovingly nicknamed for their snappy bellhop-inspired attitude and attire), providing a forced incentive to the Guests to go out and mingle. You really can't complain, though. They don't let you do that.
[[Waiter!]]You don't actually call that out, that would be rude. Instead you tap the closest plate-weilding Hop on the leg, as you fall about a foot under their line of sight, and they failed to notice your bid for their attention. You fall about a foot under most people's line of sight; you don't take it personally.
[[End]]Hanging a left, you begin to snake your way through the chattering, loitering, bickering crowd in search of a roaming flash of silver.
[[It doesn't take long to find one.]]You make it about two steps down the righthand corridor before you're stopped by an icy rendition of your name delivered at your back.
Oh boy, here it comes. You turn around.
[["Escot! To what do I owe the pleasure?"]] Not two steps out into the world and you're already being critiqued. You usually make it to at least five. Then you realize she's right.
"'Knew I had forgotten something." you voice to yourself as you fish a spare hairtie out of your breast pocket. You pull your uncharictaristically freeroaming hair back into it's usual ponytail, then turn around to see a not-so-friendly face.
[["Oh really? I thought you were making a statement."]]Well, you wouldn't call it an *un*friendly face. Vanessa Farina was one of the few Guests who tollerated you, which was a pretty big deal, according to the tabloids. She wasn't friendly with most people, and most people weren't friendly with you. It came with the territory.
"Do you always hang around my door waiting to harangue me, or am I just lucky?"
"Just lucky." she waves over her shoulder, not stopping to chat on her way to... well, who knows where.
It wasn't your business to know. Not yet, anyway. She disappears into the crowd within moments, leaving you back at square one, but grateful for the coif xyz. You wouldn't have wanted to have been caught looking unkempt by someone like-
[["JEARY!"]]...like Jeary. No wait, *you're* Jeary. Patrick Jeary. The person screeching your name at you is-
[["Escot! To what do I owe the pleasure?"]]Now THAT's an unfriendly face. S. Scott, by-and-large the most influential designer of the century (*which* century, though, is up for debate), detests the cutesy portmanteau of his Highly Respected household name. It's why you use it. His scowl deepens.
"Those. Claims. Were *unsubstantiated*."
Scott was never one for pleasantries. But you knew what he was talking about. It was your fault, after all.
"That's why we call them rumors, your highness."
The designer straightens up, looking scandalized. He didn't know the half of it.
"You'd better watch your tongue, before you *lose it*."
"Can I quote you on that?"
You pull out your pocket recorder, just in time for a clean huff from Scott as he sweeps off defensively. Short, but sweet. You're sure you can find a creative use for it at some point.
[[A sharp pang in your gut reminds you current food-based priorites->To port]]
<a href="https://backyardgrave.neocities.org/stars.html" target="_top">That's it for now! Thanks for playing so far; check back later, wont you?</a>