75 Godiva Street, Monday morning

Right. So. Not only had Eliot apparently spent the whole weekend as some sort of extra-trumped up version of his Damian Moreau era self and tried to kill a kid, the radio also seemed to think said kid had killed him back.

There was something wrong with this island.

After spending a good chunk of his morning taking out his frustrations on the weeds in his garden -- and checking all his weapons stashes for any trace of remaining guns -- he finally decided he was calm enough again to try calling his team.

"What do you mean you don't have any jobs?" Eliot rubbed his nose. Calling Parker was not supposed to make his frustrations come back. "How is that even possible?"

"You sound mean," Parker said. "Does this have anything to do with you calling me 'toots' this weekend?"

There was something seriously wrong with this island.

[ooc: of the establishing nature, though if anyone feels a compelling reason to come visit, they are certainly free to do so.]