(no subject)

Carla Jean likes the kitchen best when the dinner rush has died down, when the flow of people is still steady but substantially less. Empty rooms are dangerous, but crowds, especially predominantly cheerful ones, don't make her feel especially at ease either, serving instead only to emphasize how crazy most of the people here have got to be. Being here this late means she'll be walking back to the hut she's acquired for herself — not officially, not wanting to attach her name to anything, leave any records that could result in her being found by the wrong people — in the dark, which is far from preferable, but if she loses either way, then she'll pick this one, staying in the fluorescent lights of the Compound for as long as possible. It's all she can do, really, when most days, she doubts the likelihood of her ever not needing to look over her shoulder wherever she goes, waiting for trouble at every turn.

Tonight, she's back by a wall, a mug of lukewarm coffee in her hands as she watches people come and go, most of them passing her right by. She's fine with that. She might not have any people left, either home or here, but she isn't much concerned with making friends either way. Even so, she lifts her chin in something like a greeting when she catches the eye of someone she doesn't know. There's no harm in it, and no real reason to do otherwise.