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[impostor_syndrome]

"[shuffling noises] Hello? Yeah, this is Purple. What do you need?"



Contact the Purple Impostor by sending stone, primitive landline telephone, or pay a visit to their home at 410 Black Jade Road.

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Early December, Unsolicited Convo at the O&I

[blindwatchersees]

“You know, you might be an imposter, but I’m the Imposter Syndrome.”

[impostor_syndrome]

"What??" The bafflement in their voice is genuine; they know what he means by imposter, but not how he knows or what the fuck else he's talking about. They can't let themself overreact, though. Too much confusion and outrage at an accusation makes bystanders think you're suspicious, whether there's any substance to it or not.

"What's that supposed to mean?" They twist in their seat to keep him in view, putting down the chicken-and-potato skewer to not look too aggro about it.

[blindwatchersees]

He makes no comment, smirking and taking a sip of his drink.

What’s your alibi, Purple?

[impostor_syndrome]

This guy's messing with them on purpose, isn't he. And if they make a scene trying to shut him up they'll draw way too much of the wrong kind of attention. Is he trying to provoke them into giving themselves away?

Sardonically, they say, "Speak up, Mr. Syndrome, don't get shy now."

They take the skewer in one hand and use the other to slide everything on it into the front aperture of their helmet. They look more casually unbothered if they're eating, but also it's an old habit not to put themselves in a position to get chased out and leave half a meal behind.

[blindwatchersees]

"Please. Mr. Syndrome was my father," he responds, and then, rather irritatingly, says nothing beyond that quip. He's drumming his fingers on the counter like a crewmate getting a little too itchy-fingered about the emergency meeting button.