hastrustissues | (no subject)

There's a baggie burning a hole in her pocket and a bottle hanging loose in her hand as she moves from floor to floor of the Compound, trying to remember which room Santana had mentioned she was living in. It's not in her nature to write things down, and most of the time, she has a damn good memory without assistance from any outside aid, but she's pretty sure she'd been slightly drunk by the time they'd bumped into each other on Casino Night, and the time after that she'd only just finished sampling the joys of Bill Murray's ginormous hookah. So, really, she's two for two when it comes to reaching a certain level of intoxication around the other girl. Wichita would be hoping that she hasn't made that terrible of an impression - if she was the kind of girl who allowed herself to care that much.

"Fifth floor? It's the fifth floor," she declares, primarily to herself, and she's not above knocking on every door to find who she's looking for, but she doesn't think it'll come to that. Hopefully.

She takes a chance and guesses, lifting the hand that holds the bottle to thump it against the door itself by way of knocking, taking a step back to wait for the sound of movement from within. Idly, her free hand wanders into the back pocket of her jeans, fingertips brushing against the plastic bag there. She's even scored some rolling paper, but she's remembered to keep it in a pocket separate from her lighter. The last thing she needs is to burn a hole through a pretty decent score from the clothes box by being an idiot.

Threaded | Flat

As with all things, there are as many benefits to living in the Compound as there are inconveniences (for lack of a nastier, angrier word). It isn't enough for Santana to considering roughing it out in one of those huts without ready access to air conditioning and haircare products, but she will never be at peace with the fact that none of the rooms have doors. If ever she meets the entity whose grand idea it was to partition dorm rooms with curtains, it will not be a pretty confrontation. Presently, she will settle for venting her anger and frustrations on whatever — or whomever — is nearest, so when she hears a faint knock interrupt the otherwise quiet and still mood of the dormitory, she whips the curtain aside and bounds down the hall in search of a target.

Wichita lucks out by being one of the select few Santana would spare if she ever snapped and went on a killing spree. Or if she just threw a tantrum; words cut deep, especially the likes that she tends to fling around.

"That's a storage closet," she says, shaking her head. "Some genius thought rooms with doors would be unnecessary, so now we all have curtains. I think it's part of the conspiracy to drive us all crazy, like, stripping away our privacy is just the first step, you now?

Wait, what are you doing up here?"