Don't worry about it. Happens all the time. [He doesn't take that kind of thing personally at all to begin with, but hey, this guy is giving him alcohol. He's not about to complain. Matt takes a swig and then offers the bottle back]
You mean between Olympia and Wyver? Tensions have been high, but so far it's stayed peaceful. Wyver even took in the sick refugees from Olympia, so--- I don't know that we're looking at war, necessarily. There may be a way around it.
Yeah, but... [Oh, forget it. Richie sighs. Manners is manners, and it's best not to dwell on the gaffe. He's a tad paranoid all the same: eons ago he would have launched into some cockamamie routine, squawking and chirruping over the blindness the way he had over Ben's weight, Stan's Jewishness, Bill's stutter, Mike's blackness. It had been his warped form of affection, acceptance wrapped in gags and jokes that would get your ears boxed if the grown folks heard. Thank Christ he'd shaken loose of it the older he'd gotten. Reserved the worst of his teasing for good friends who knew it for what it was and gave back just as bad, and spared strangers the displeasure of his antics.
For the most part, anyway. On the radio, anything goes save the four letter no-nos.]
That so? [Hmmph. Richie takes his own share, ounce and a half of scotch hitting the back of his throat like a fireball. He grimaces as it goes down.] Glad to hear no one's taken a match to the powder keg yet. I'm tired of being antsy all the damn time about which side's gonna trigger the bomb first.
[Much too late, he realizes it. With pronounced reluctance, he continues.] You're not, uh...how do I put this? I know for some reason the world ended more than once. There's some duplication mess or some shit, I don't have the degree in astrophysics to make a lick of sense out of it, but you know. You're from an Earth, right? [Richie's fingers drum uneasily at the side of the bottle.] You know the one about the Soviets? Soviets v. America, who's got more deposits in the bomb bank?
[The kid's a funny one. He's not shy, just sparse with the gab. But lord, in seven words or less he had a comeback for everything. What was that one about brevity and wit? Richie ran the opposite way (by several miles and on rollerskates, if we were being honest here), but damn if he wasn't getting good chucks out of the shaggy-haired punk no matter what the one threw at the other.
Did he have his parents around? He can't remember if he asked the last time over curry. It didn't seem like it. You'd be sticking with whatever family you had if you got them, wouldn't you? Especially in a tricky situation like this.
You wouldn't be taking booze from old men you didn't know.
Well, shit. The sudden thread of unease weaves around his gut, and dampers the enthusiasm he might have met the next question with.] Depends on what you want to hear. I haven't got much in the way of bedtime stories.
[Then there's an odd flicker. Richie's blinking, lightly rubbing an eye. He casts a quick glance around the cave. Their fire is by no means a light illuminating but he'd thought it had livened up the place better than this.
Then the crude paintings on the wall take on an odd sheen. Richie's heart gets to thudding, a slow climb to kick off but it's shaping up to be a running sprint...]
[ Akira's been around plenty of shitty adults, plenty of decent ones too, and he (hopefully) has a good enough gauge on Richie to be accepting the hard liquor in the first place. (His criteria isn't terribly high when judging the generation(s) above him: 1) don't be an asshole; 2) don't be an asshole.) This guy's not exemplar material, but he's doesn't have that certain, Palace-promising stench of corruption on him either, and besides he's hilarious.
...Maybe a little moody (it's the same, somber change of tone that he'd taken before), though he can't really be blamed in either instance. They'd just woken up the first time they'd met, and they're stuck here now... Neither of which make for great conversational backdrop. ]
Hmm...
[ He's debating what sort of adaptation to request when the flames sputter again, too violently to be the mischief of a wayward breeze. (The enclosure blocks out practically all the wind, anyhow.) As the pit of the cavern darkens, its husk seems to glimmer to life, paintings luminescent enough to cast a faint glow on their skin and clothes.
...He can't be that drunk, he's barely had enough to even hit a healthy glow... Akira gets to his feet with a sharp frown, looking for signs of intruders. (Joker's mask emblazons itself across his face, though he doesn't call his persona just yet, or go into full costume change.) ]
[He's been a little distracted by getting hoodwinked into a cave rave, all this glow in the dark ambiance stealing his attention from his junior. But when he looks back to assert that no, he's not going crazy, suddenly he's not so sure he isn't.
Who slapped a mask on babyface over here?
Then all sight of the kid is swallowed up. Their fire has ceased to exist, and it's all on the glow now.]
Akira?!
[His shout sounds muffled, even to his own ears. What on earth?
Shadows, long and lined up neat as bowling pins, are shuffling across the wall. Richie snaps to attention, squinting in the bleary darkness to make them out. A posse in robes, filing up to the skull in the center of the cave.
Through his shock, his confusion, he has room for one sane thought: I fucking knew it.
Nobody puts giant skulls anywhere without a dark purpose.]
["Out of luck either way." Sounds about right for his time in outer space. Where was the emergency exit again?
Richie hisses as they hit the vacuum, solid support abandoning them for the wilds as they swing out of the hangar. For a glorious moment, the ship flies straight. True.
So was another ship, which was flying so straight that it might be beelining for their windshield on purpose.]
Oh god— [How was a twinsie set up supposed to work? Was one of them running the gas while they other spun the wheel? Richie's bending his joystick the other way but all that does is give the ship a sickly lurch. Now the other pilots could bust open the slick metal siding as opposed to a direct hit to the cockpit.]
[Clara bites her lip, eyes skittering over the controls for a couple more milliseconds.]
Pull it towards you, hard as you can.
[It's either her Teacher Voice or her Pilot Voice; the two are remarkably similar. Brushing hair out of her eyes with one hand, she pushes the thrusters forward with the other, steady eyes on the obstacle in front of them.
She's entirely too calm and collected for the given situation.]
((from here, this was so much later than I expected i'm sorry))
Oh, god—you're serious? Must you?
[He must. Richie is not only covered in viscera, but now he's expected to make room for the carcass what gave him the spray. It's with deep displeasure that he scoots back, knees practically banging his ears as he has to crumple up like a paper ball to keep from obstructing that long, flopping tail as it breaches the rim of the boat. When it's settled the boat is sitting rather lower in the water than he'd like, and Richie's got to keep his legs spread so that the finned tail can sit easy on his crotch.
No matter what end you sat at, looking down the long line of the dead serpents body gave the impression that Richie had a real monster cock. It's like he wished for extra inches from a spiteful genie and tried to fix the goof by hacking the bit with the teeth off.
He looks blithely to his boatmate, and speaks in the nasal melody of a harried Queens-bred Rabbi.] I said just the tip, you Mushegener! This is a bar mitzvah, not a butcher shop! Oy gevalt.
[He resumes wiping the blood clear of his face, spitting over the side. Good shot too, that's about four feet of air before the pink glob hits the water.] Is this for dinner, or are you going to put it on a plaque over the fireplace?
[ What's with the bizarre impression? Is this some kind of nervous tic? Did the guy fashion himself some kind of aspiring stand-up comedian back home? 76 finds it easier to ignore it for now, and if he makes any notice of the unintentional endowments that he's given his ship-mate, he doesn't comment on it. Despite the stranger's complaints, he is making room for the carcass, which is really all that 76 cares about.
Once the serpent is fully settled in the boat between them, 76 reaches into his boot and procures a serrated knife. He is definitely more weapons than person at this point, or that's the impression he gives off at least. ]
Gonna see if I can sell the parts once we get back to Wyver. You'd be surprised what they consider valuable over there.
[ So sorry, but the boat has been converted into a butcher shop of sorts for now. The first order of business is to skin the thing, and so 76 leans over and begins to slice the serpent further open, straight down the middle.
He glances up again, not quite apologetic, but he'll say this much: ] You might want to plug your nose.
[Just like that old Popeye adage. "I yam what I yam." Before he can think better of it the old tune spills out, a Fleischer cartoon come to life under Richie's breath.] I'm one tough Gazookus which hates all Palookas, wot ain't on the up and square...
[The sword is retired, but he hasn't cleaned it off. The blood leaks down onto the boat bottom. It's just so...so very repugnant, but also careless. Steadying himself, he grabs for his oar. Let's get out to land, boyo, because no amount of hiding behind voices was going to change the fact that the man up ahead weren't no man at all.
And fearful as he is, Richie can't help himself.]
So no dice on that explanation? I'll tell you one if you tell me another. Tit for tat, Jack. Or we can keep rowing in silence and pretend like nothing ever happened. [Richie's oar hits the water. The boat propels further.] Part ways at the beach and drift away like dandelion fluff on a fart wind.
[ His hearing is real sharp, but just because he catches Richie's muttering doesn't mean he can make sense of it. No matter. Lots of people in this mismatched crew speak mostly in gibberish. ]
What do you want me to say? Your heart is already fighting to escape its chest. Will it soothe you to know that I am an abomination, as you already suspect? That I was dead, and yet raised? My body is a corpse held together by black magic.
[ He knits his eyebrows as he stares Richie down. A bit of viscera slides down the grooves of Byfrost's blade, then plops wetly onto the deck. There is no way to hide what he is, and no point in sugar-coating it, either. ]
[For fuck's sakes. He thought he was just an evil elf — as if that made any sense to begin with.
Several more questions beg to be asked. A lot of how's, some why's, and a passel of "what the fucks" but the man's giving him the evil eye, and he's doing such justice to the phrase that Richie's not convinced that glare doesn't come with a curse. If his balls split open and spiders pour out, he'll know who to blame.]
Look, I'm just trying to wrap my head around it all. I'm not trying to make a damn spectacle out of you, I've just never...the place I came from was plain as paper. [A white lie. It was plain to most. Those that found out different died shortly thereafter, or forgot about it until that spectre of death was hunting them down and cackling all the while.] You can't blame me for jumping out of my skin.
[Old isn't wrong. Time hasn't paid him kindness in either body or era for the Thesa demographics, but that hardly means he should be cast off. He's delivering on the thrills right now, and maybe a few weeks in, a couple months around the block he'll be getting his space legs and finding better things to do with his time than mope about the good old days.
For now, he's happy to keep two-stepping.
She tilts her head up at him once things have cooled it. The song is winding down and Richie's getting bereft of breath. He's guessing she's got questions about the stunt. It'd be easier if they could whip their phones out but as far as he's concerned that'd be a big faux pas on the dance floor. He's already seen too many people stop mid-conversation to fiddle with blinking screens, cutting their buddies off completely. Kids these days.
As for the query, he gives a congenial shrug.]
I used to waste a lot of time out on the town. It's easier to pick up girls when you know a trick or two. [The song does end then, and he releases her to applaud the band.] Problem is now you know one of them and I've only got about two more to keep impressing you with. Think I'll save them for the next part-ay. Keep some mystique.
And yourself? You do a lot of dancing back home? That wasn't your first time hoofing it, I can tell that much.
[ Ah yes. Girls. Of course. Somehow, Red doesn't find the answer too surprising ( but she doesn't find it entirely insulting either, which is probably a good sign ). At least he's managed to guess her question correctly — small victories. She easily steps away from him, politely applauding the band with the rest of the crowd.
... All the while listening to him explain. She lets out a small huff, which is the closest thing to laughter he's probably going to get at the moment, slowly shaking her head ( raises an eyebrow to give him a Look ). Maybe she'll look forward to it, or something ( she might be impressed, but she can't exactly be fawning over him. Sorry Richie ).
She follows the crowd as they disperse — a new song starts up, and a new set of pairs take it to the floor. She's long due for a breather herself, probably, which means she can finally pull her phone out once she's back to the edges of the dance floor. Looks up to make sure that Richie is still with her, then —
It takes a moment, but he gets his answer soon enough. ] They like parties, where I'm from. [ At least, her crowd. The famous and the influential. ] It made sense for me to pick up a thing or two.
[Look Red he is a MAN. What could you possibly expect?
They've drifted off the floor. The quaking need to move his feet has dissipated and in its stead is a mighty thirst. He'll be leading them to the drink station, and in a curious change of pace he reaches for the water first.
Richie squints at her messages as he pours her a glass first, then himself, before taking his own phone out. Their first meet and greet in the bush had him yapping while she typed, but when they hit the bar after Richie found he'd prefer to match her. Gave the conversation an even keel.]
Sounds like your place was a good time. you picked up a lot, congrats. What did you do back in the day outside of selecting sunsets?
[He spits out the words like he's been denied a bank loan. Equal parts offense and shock. He thinks (inevitably) of Sandra. Though her ghostly form looked mostly voluntary. He hadn't seen her get sucked back into the rock against her say so but that didn't mean it couldn't happen.
And who's to say they're following the same rules? The man he'd met hadn't been some spectre. He'd been solid, had cast a shadow and made the log creak with weight when he'd settled down on it. That only makes this all the more preposterous. Add that to the glimmering sword with the microchip wiring down the front and Richie's a plank away from jumping ship.]
Is that why you were so keen on meeting Sandy? You wanna exchange notes? [Richie groans again and casts a look all around. It's still empty out here. With the falling snow and the gnarled trees caging them in he'd expect the Headless Horseman to trot along before any average person would. Not that average people exist anymore.] God-fucking-dammit, goddammit. It's everybody, isn't it? There ain't a regular soul in the bunch, is there?
[There's nothing really for it. The longer he sticks around out here the more icicles amass on his ball hairs. Richie grunts and resumes dragging, this time with a deep frown and a Scrooge-like hunch to the shoulders.] You wanna run the logic on this by me, or are you gonna keep zip-lipped about that too?
Despite his best efforts to keep things conversational...if he had a jaw to tense right now he would be. Boxer's a plenty patient guy. Rolling with the punches is largely a defining character trait, figuratively as well as literally. But this is a sensitive enough subject, and a fresher one than he lets on. He's a closemouthed man to start—quick to chat but slow to trust. If Richie's going to be personally offended when he's being straight with him, he doesn't see much reason to show any more of his cards.
So. Evenly, a little wryly, if missing most of the amiable manner from earlier—]
Doesn't sound like you want to hear it.
[So he'll pass on making your day any harder, Rich. Already bracing himself to work out a Plan B—drop him off at the lodge and he'll be out of your hair. Hell, drop him off somewhere else and he'll bide his time til morning if he has to.]
[It's the tone that makes him pause more than anything. Richie's addled but comparatively speaking, it's a light addling. Maybe if this had happened in the broad daylight with nothing but nature's bounty in his liver and veins he'd be giving benefits of the doubt out by the dozen. He'd been able to handle Sandra. That...raccoon, sort of. Yusuke's ghost blitz had scared the shit out of him but they'd worked around it. The green assassin, the general loss of world and logic.
Not all handled spectacularly, true, and he won't even go into the undead elf nonsense, but this is the first time he's thrown a true snit about it. Richie stops. Mentally, verbally, physically. He stands in pause on the road as the shame creeps in at the edges. Yeah, it's a real titfit all right. Maybe it's because he's coming off that explosion with Byerly. Maybe the liquor and weed weren't helping.
He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Removes his glasses as they fog, rubbing them on the fleece of his coat.]
No, no. Fuck. I do want to hear it. I'm just feeling like a real dinosaur. I don't know what to do with all this magic shit. [He starts moving again then. Evenly paced, if slightly more sombre than the stompity stomp he'd been working up before.] The technology, either. Nothing against you or...what's going on with the sword.
So what did happen? You're not, um. [Let him fish for the word in the midst of a pot haze.] You looked pretty fleshy for a hologram.
[Goodness gracious great balls of fire! She can smile. It's a pretty cute one too, gold lip and all.]
I guess it's too late to find out, huh? [Good old Armageddon chucks. You want them, he's got them. Richie pulls her around, aiming for a light spin if she'll follow the lead.] Unless we've got one here in the mix. Hold on a sec.
[While he's got one hand free he'll take it to the side of his mouth, calling out to the dancing patrons around them in a seamless invocation of a beret-touting Parisian.] 'Allo, bonne nuit! Some crétin is burning ze coq au vin! Quickly! Vite vite, we must save eet, or we are all cursed to eat American Cheese-bah-gehrrs!
[No one goes running. Richie pulls her back in with a tug.] Looks like we're shit out of luck.
[ The spin, she can absolutely indulge, and the way she moves has all the grace of a dancer – even if she doesn’t often consider herself to be one.
But as Richie calls out to the crowd, Gamora looks just as startled as she did when she found herself dancing along with him. He’s ridiculous, absolutely and totally so, and she has the very distant thought that Peter would probably find him hilarious.
As it stands, she’s mostly mystified by how much of a character he is, how over-the-top and joyously so.
She twirls back into his arms, and shakes her head at him, that puzzled shadow of a smile still in place. ]
That was absurd.
[ And maybe she’s just adjusting to the absurd, because she doesn’t look appalled or annoyed.
A step up. ]
puffs aspirator, my mom won't let me drink in the house
[your boyf sounds great gamora, you should introduce them. listen to stupid in stereo...
They're wonderful, the people here. Everyone's been too polite to tell him to shut up. Short-sighted on their part and it isn't likely to last, but he's gonna relish the freedom while he has it. No one bust out the Beep Beep bullshit on him just yet, let him live a little.]
What are you talking about? That's how you call them. Ask anyone. If you want to smoke out the French, you threaten their food. [She's not struggling with the moves at all. He's impressed. The stern and stiff-spined killer he'd met in the bone pit is just hazy memories now. In her stead is someone who almost looks like they can spell "fun" without checking the dictionary.] You dance pretty good for someone who's got no time for nonsense. Do they teach you the cha-cha after you finish dagger throwing?
[Nothing sounds Cuban about the tunes right now, but Richie pulls back a few inches and starts the first few steps anyhow. If she follows along he'll be pleased as fucking punch. What a grand surprise she was turning out to be.]
[Oopsies. His slick moves slow some (but don't stop, they can't stop) and he pulls a face.]
Oh, fuck. I forgot.
[It was hard to remember. She'd never confirmed it outright, and her otherworldliness trampled down most other facts about her. Yet come to think of it:]
Wait, you just said you were having trouble keeping track of me. How the hell did you know it was me coming by?
[ Eloquent. You're forgiven, probably. Nobody remembers, and she'll take it as an eternal compliment. ]
[ At his question, though, her eyebrows quirk up. And her considerably less slick moves do stutter, but like his own, they fail to stop entirely. It's just too infectious, even if he has yet to tell her how to do it quite right. Damn this. Damn him. ]
Do forgive me if someone has already informed you, Richie, but you are very loud. [ Said just deliberately enough to fall short of polite, while skirting just above the threshold of genuinely jabbing. ] But all noisiness aside, I can sense that it is you, just fine. Consider it another spiritous trick up my sleeve. It is the finer movements I cannot pick up...
[ Such as that sprightly grapevining he's doing there in his two-step... She doesn't know what grapevining is, this is getting her nowhere. ]
[Guilty as charged, there. Richie gives a cheeky shrug.] Oh I knew that. My comportment grades were always in the shitter. [Maybe the rest of the world just needs to speak up.
"Sense" is too vague a concept to be relied on as a definition. From how she's talking Richie figures it's something like how the hairs on the back of your neck raise when someone's spying on you from across the room. Little whiskers picking pings and hair trigger movements that your eyes and ears were to clumsy to catch. The steps she's making, though uncertain and mostly incorrect, show that she's able to catch something of what he's doing right now. It's the broad strokes of the dance.
He thinks he gets it. It's still so strange to him, and even now in the heavy thrum of the music and the gaiety of the party it reels him back to times where his own curious instincts locked him into action. Knowing to throw the sneezing powder when bullets had failed, shifting into a voice over the tormented scream he felt ping-ponging through his lungs. Knowing that he shouldn't take a bite of the fortune cookie before he'd broken it open...
Gee-yawd. Richie's stomach does a nasty curl as he battles back the image of cookie shards wedged in sclera, blood and ooze welling around the punctures, that brown iris staring unblinking up from the golden folds like a grisly pearl in a clam shell. Let's lay the horseshit in the grave where it belongs, Tozier, and enjoy yourself like you're supposed to.]
Finer movements, huh? [He'll deign not to commentate on the surreal notion of sensing for the time being. He can always needle her brain for particulars over a pint.] Okay okay—start off feet together, then step to the side.
[He does so himself, moving outside of the beat (though it kills him some, the glitter's compulsion demanding a more dedicated boogie) to ensure that she's able to follow along.] Step the other foot behind then side step again. Bring in that other foot with a tap. Then repeat in reverse.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
third eye blind
Well partner, you'll have your work cut out for you. The way this camping trip is going. You've seen the bones—
[Richie stops. Clucks his tongue and winces. You fucker.]
My bad, sorry. Anyway, I'm just saying the ambience isn't exactly romantic around here.
[HE'S YOUNG AT HEART.....that must count for something....
Richie lets him have at the bottle, holding his hand out when he's finished so he can take a sippy sip himself.]
Okay. Sure. I heard there was some kind of Cold War a-brewing, doesn't exactly seem like things are gonna be all right.
no subject
You mean between Olympia and Wyver? Tensions have been high, but so far it's stayed peaceful. Wyver even took in the sick refugees from Olympia, so--- I don't know that we're looking at war, necessarily. There may be a way around it.
[He's trying to be optimistic, at least]
no subject
For the most part, anyway. On the radio, anything goes save the four letter no-nos.]
That so? [Hmmph. Richie takes his own share, ounce and a half of scotch hitting the back of his throat like a fireball. He grimaces as it goes down.] Glad to hear no one's taken a match to the powder keg yet. I'm tired of being antsy all the damn time about which side's gonna trigger the bomb first.
[Much too late, he realizes it. With pronounced reluctance, he continues.] You're not, uh...how do I put this? I know for some reason the world ended more than once. There's some duplication mess or some shit, I don't have the degree in astrophysics to make a lick of sense out of it, but you know. You're from an Earth, right? [Richie's fingers drum uneasily at the side of the bottle.] You know the one about the Soviets? Soviets v. America, who's got more deposits in the bomb bank?
(no subject)
(no subject)
this is so late, says kabby, ignoring the fact that my tag was later
sipp pls.........
kabby please
baby elvis costello
[Richie snorts.] If you say so, big shot.
[The kid's a funny one. He's not shy, just sparse with the gab. But lord, in seven words or less he had a comeback for everything. What was that one about brevity and wit? Richie ran the opposite way (by several miles and on rollerskates, if we were being honest here), but damn if he wasn't getting good chucks out of the shaggy-haired punk no matter what the one threw at the other.
Did he have his parents around? He can't remember if he asked the last time over curry. It didn't seem like it. You'd be sticking with whatever family you had if you got them, wouldn't you? Especially in a tricky situation like this.
You wouldn't be taking booze from old men you didn't know.
Well, shit. The sudden thread of unease weaves around his gut, and dampers the enthusiasm he might have met the next question with.] Depends on what you want to hear. I haven't got much in the way of bedtime stories.
[Then there's an odd flicker. Richie's blinking, lightly rubbing an eye. He casts a quick glance around the cave. Their fire is by no means a light illuminating but he'd thought it had livened up the place better than this.
Then the crude paintings on the wall take on an odd sheen. Richie's heart gets to thudding, a slow climb to kick off but it's shaping up to be a running sprint...]
wh
...Maybe a little moody (it's the same, somber change of tone that he'd taken before), though he can't really be blamed in either instance. They'd just woken up the first time they'd met, and they're stuck here now... Neither of which make for great conversational backdrop. ]
Hmm...
[ He's debating what sort of adaptation to request when the flames sputter again, too violently to be the mischief of a wayward breeze. (The enclosure blocks out practically all the wind, anyhow.) As the pit of the cavern darkens, its husk seems to glimmer to life, paintings luminescent enough to cast a faint glow on their skin and clothes.
...He can't be that drunk, he's barely had enough to even hit a healthy glow... Akira gets to his feet with a sharp frown, looking for signs of intruders. (Joker's mask emblazons itself across his face, though he doesn't call his persona just yet, or go into full costume change.) ]
idk just for glasses
Who slapped a mask on babyface over here?
Then all sight of the kid is swallowed up. Their fire has ceased to exist, and it's all on the glow now.]
Akira?!
[His shout sounds muffled, even to his own ears. What on earth?
Shadows, long and lined up neat as bowling pins, are shuffling across the wall. Richie snaps to attention, squinting in the bleary darkness to make them out. A posse in robes, filing up to the skull in the center of the cave.
Through his shock, his confusion, he has room for one sane thought: I fucking knew it.
Nobody puts giant skulls anywhere without a dark purpose.]
Santa Clara
["Out of luck either way." Sounds about right for his time in outer space. Where was the emergency exit again?
Richie hisses as they hit the vacuum, solid support abandoning them for the wilds as they swing out of the hangar. For a glorious moment, the ship flies straight. True.
So was another ship, which was flying so straight that it might be beelining for their windshield on purpose.]
Oh god— [How was a twinsie set up supposed to work? Was one of them running the gas while they other spun the wheel? Richie's bending his joystick the other way but all that does is give the ship a sickly lurch. Now the other pilots could bust open the slick metal siding as opposed to a direct hit to the cockpit.]
Quick — expertise, deliver it. Now.
no subject
Pull it towards you, hard as you can.
[It's either her Teacher Voice or her Pilot Voice; the two are remarkably similar. Brushing hair out of her eyes with one hand, she pushes the thrusters forward with the other, steady eyes on the obstacle in front of them.
She's entirely too calm and collected for the given situation.]
hit the road, jack
Oh, god—you're serious? Must you?
[He must. Richie is not only covered in viscera, but now he's expected to make room for the carcass what gave him the spray. It's with deep displeasure that he scoots back, knees practically banging his ears as he has to crumple up like a paper ball to keep from obstructing that long, flopping tail as it breaches the rim of the boat. When it's settled the boat is sitting rather lower in the water than he'd like, and Richie's got to keep his legs spread so that the finned tail can sit easy on his crotch.
No matter what end you sat at, looking down the long line of the dead serpents body gave the impression that Richie had a real monster cock. It's like he wished for extra inches from a spiteful genie and tried to fix the goof by hacking the bit with the teeth off.
He looks blithely to his boatmate, and speaks in the nasal melody of a harried Queens-bred Rabbi.] I said just the tip, you Mushegener! This is a bar mitzvah, not a butcher shop! Oy gevalt.
[He resumes wiping the blood clear of his face, spitting over the side. Good shot too, that's about four feet of air before the pink glob hits the water.] Is this for dinner, or are you going to put it on a plaque over the fireplace?
no subject
Once the serpent is fully settled in the boat between them, 76 reaches into his boot and procures a serrated knife. He is definitely more weapons than person at this point, or that's the impression he gives off at least. ]
Gonna see if I can sell the parts once we get back to Wyver. You'd be surprised what they consider valuable over there.
[ So sorry, but the boat has been converted into a butcher shop of sorts for now. The first order of business is to skin the thing, and so 76 leans over and begins to slice the serpent further open, straight down the middle.
He glances up again, not quite apologetic, but he'll say this much: ] You might want to plug your nose.
Megadeth
[Just like that old Popeye adage. "I yam what I yam." Before he can think better of it the old tune spills out, a Fleischer cartoon come to life under Richie's breath.] I'm one tough Gazookus which hates all Palookas, wot ain't on the up and square...
[The sword is retired, but he hasn't cleaned it off. The blood leaks down onto the boat bottom. It's just so...so very repugnant, but also careless. Steadying himself, he grabs for his oar. Let's get out to land, boyo, because no amount of hiding behind voices was going to change the fact that the man up ahead weren't no man at all.
And fearful as he is, Richie can't help himself.]
So no dice on that explanation? I'll tell you one if you tell me another. Tit for tat, Jack. Or we can keep rowing in silence and pretend like nothing ever happened. [Richie's oar hits the water. The boat propels further.] Part ways at the beach and drift away like dandelion fluff on a fart wind.
CUTE, KABBY
What do you want me to say? Your heart is already fighting to escape its chest. Will it soothe you to know that I am an abomination, as you already suspect? That I was dead, and yet raised? My body is a corpse held together by black magic.
[ He knits his eyebrows as he stares Richie down. A bit of viscera slides down the grooves of Byfrost's blade, then plops wetly onto the deck. There is no way to hide what he is, and no point in sugar-coating it, either. ]
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The dead part is news to me.
[For fuck's sakes. He thought he was just an evil elf — as if that made any sense to begin with.
Several more questions beg to be asked. A lot of how's, some why's, and a passel of "what the fucks" but the man's giving him the evil eye, and he's doing such justice to the phrase that Richie's not convinced that glare doesn't come with a curse. If his balls split open and spiders pour out, he'll know who to blame.]
Look, I'm just trying to wrap my head around it all. I'm not trying to make a damn spectacle out of you, I've just never...the place I came from was plain as paper. [A white lie. It was plain to most. Those that found out different died shortly thereafter, or forgot about it until that spectre of death was hunting them down and cackling all the while.] You can't blame me for jumping out of my skin.
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Red Red Wine
[Old isn't wrong. Time hasn't paid him kindness in either body or era for the Thesa demographics, but that hardly means he should be cast off. He's delivering on the thrills right now, and maybe a few weeks in, a couple months around the block he'll be getting his space legs and finding better things to do with his time than mope about the good old days.
For now, he's happy to keep two-stepping.
She tilts her head up at him once things have cooled it. The song is winding down and Richie's getting bereft of breath. He's guessing she's got questions about the stunt. It'd be easier if they could whip their phones out but as far as he's concerned that'd be a big faux pas on the dance floor. He's already seen too many people stop mid-conversation to fiddle with blinking screens, cutting their buddies off completely. Kids these days.
As for the query, he gives a congenial shrug.]
I used to waste a lot of time out on the town. It's easier to pick up girls when you know a trick or two. [The song does end then, and he releases her to applaud the band.] Problem is now you know one of them and I've only got about two more to keep impressing you with. Think I'll save them for the next part-ay. Keep some mystique.
And yourself? You do a lot of dancing back home? That wasn't your first time hoofing it, I can tell that much.
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... All the while listening to him explain. She lets out a small huff, which is the closest thing to laughter he's probably going to get at the moment, slowly shaking her head ( raises an eyebrow to give him a Look ). Maybe she'll look forward to it, or something ( she might be impressed, but she can't exactly be fawning over him. Sorry Richie ).
She follows the crowd as they disperse — a new song starts up, and a new set of pairs take it to the floor. She's long due for a breather herself, probably, which means she can finally pull her phone out once she's back to the edges of the dance floor. Looks up to make sure that Richie is still with her, then —
It takes a moment, but he gets his answer soon enough. ] They like parties, where I'm from. [ At least, her crowd. The famous and the influential. ] It made sense for me to pick up a thing or two.
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They've drifted off the floor. The quaking need to move his feet has dissipated and in its stead is a mighty thirst. He'll be leading them to the drink station, and in a curious change of pace he reaches for the water first.
Richie squints at her messages as he pours her a glass first, then himself, before taking his own phone out. Their first meet and greet in the bush had him yapping while she typed, but when they hit the bar after Richie found he'd prefer to match her. Gave the conversation an even keel.]
Sounds like your place was a good time. you picked up a lot, congrats. What did you do back in the day outside of selecting sunsets?
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Raging Bull
"Time limited"?
[He spits out the words like he's been denied a bank loan. Equal parts offense and shock. He thinks (inevitably) of Sandra. Though her ghostly form looked mostly voluntary. He hadn't seen her get sucked back into the rock against her say so but that didn't mean it couldn't happen.
And who's to say they're following the same rules? The man he'd met hadn't been some spectre. He'd been solid, had cast a shadow and made the log creak with weight when he'd settled down on it. That only makes this all the more preposterous. Add that to the glimmering sword with the microchip wiring down the front and Richie's a plank away from jumping ship.]
Is that why you were so keen on meeting Sandy? You wanna exchange notes? [Richie groans again and casts a look all around. It's still empty out here. With the falling snow and the gnarled trees caging them in he'd expect the Headless Horseman to trot along before any average person would. Not that average people exist anymore.] God-fucking-dammit, goddammit. It's everybody, isn't it? There ain't a regular soul in the bunch, is there?
[There's nothing really for it. The longer he sticks around out here the more icicles amass on his ball hairs. Richie grunts and resumes dragging, this time with a deep frown and a Scrooge-like hunch to the shoulders.] You wanna run the logic on this by me, or are you gonna keep zip-lipped about that too?
kabby please.
Despite his best efforts to keep things conversational...if he had a jaw to tense right now he would be. Boxer's a plenty patient guy. Rolling with the punches is largely a defining character trait, figuratively as well as literally. But this is a sensitive enough subject, and a fresher one than he lets on. He's a closemouthed man to start—quick to chat but slow to trust. If Richie's going to be personally offended when he's being straight with him, he doesn't see much reason to show any more of his cards.
So. Evenly, a little wryly, if missing most of the amiable manner from earlier—]
Doesn't sound like you want to hear it.
[So he'll pass on making your day any harder, Rich. Already bracing himself to work out a Plan B—drop him off at the lodge and he'll be out of your hair. Hell, drop him off somewhere else and he'll bide his time til morning if he has to.]
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Not all handled spectacularly, true, and he won't even go into the undead elf nonsense, but this is the first time he's thrown a true snit about it. Richie stops. Mentally, verbally, physically. He stands in pause on the road as the shame creeps in at the edges. Yeah, it's a real titfit all right. Maybe it's because he's coming off that explosion with Byerly. Maybe the liquor and weed weren't helping.
He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Removes his glasses as they fog, rubbing them on the fleece of his coat.]
No, no. Fuck. I do want to hear it. I'm just feeling like a real dinosaur. I don't know what to do with all this magic shit. [He starts moving again then. Evenly paced, if slightly more sombre than the stompity stomp he'd been working up before.] The technology, either. Nothing against you or...what's going on with the sword.
So what did happen? You're not, um. [Let him fish for the word in the midst of a pot haze.] You looked pretty fleshy for a hologram.
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Starwoman
[Goodness gracious great balls of fire! She can smile. It's a pretty cute one too, gold lip and all.]
I guess it's too late to find out, huh? [Good old Armageddon chucks. You want them, he's got them. Richie pulls her around, aiming for a light spin if she'll follow the lead.] Unless we've got one here in the mix. Hold on a sec.
[While he's got one hand free he'll take it to the side of his mouth, calling out to the dancing patrons around them in a seamless invocation of a beret-touting Parisian.] 'Allo, bonne nuit! Some crétin is burning ze coq au vin! Quickly! Vite vite, we must save eet, or we are all cursed to eat American Cheese-bah-gehrrs!
[No one goes running. Richie pulls her back in with a tug.] Looks like we're shit out of luck.
i came here for wine and u give me juice smh
But as Richie calls out to the crowd, Gamora looks just as startled as she did when she found herself dancing along with him. He’s ridiculous, absolutely and totally so, and she has the very distant thought that Peter would probably find him hilarious.
As it stands, she’s mostly mystified by how much of a character he is, how over-the-top and joyously so.
She twirls back into his arms, and shakes her head at him, that puzzled shadow of a smile still in place. ]
That was absurd.
[ And maybe she’s just adjusting to the absurd, because she doesn’t look appalled or annoyed.
A step up. ]
puffs aspirator, my mom won't let me drink in the house
They're wonderful, the people here. Everyone's been too polite to tell him to shut up. Short-sighted on their part and it isn't likely to last, but he's gonna relish the freedom while he has it. No one bust out the Beep Beep bullshit on him just yet, let him live a little.]
What are you talking about? That's how you call them. Ask anyone. If you want to smoke out the French, you threaten their food. [She's not struggling with the moves at all. He's impressed. The stern and stiff-spined killer he'd met in the bone pit is just hazy memories now. In her stead is someone who almost looks like they can spell "fun" without checking the dictionary.] You dance pretty good for someone who's got no time for nonsense. Do they teach you the cha-cha after you finish dagger throwing?
[Nothing sounds Cuban about the tunes right now, but Richie pulls back a few inches and starts the first few steps anyhow. If she follows along he'll be pleased as fucking punch. What a grand surprise she was turning out to be.]
loud SIGHING
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sidenote: ur cr chart is making me laugh real hard
thank you, i poured my heart into it
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Sandra Dee
[Oopsies. His slick moves slow some (but don't stop, they can't stop) and he pulls a face.]
Oh, fuck. I forgot.
[It was hard to remember. She'd never confirmed it outright, and her otherworldliness trampled down most other facts about her. Yet come to think of it:]
Wait, you just said you were having trouble keeping track of me. How the hell did you know it was me coming by?
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[ At his question, though, her eyebrows quirk up. And her considerably less slick moves do stutter, but like his own, they fail to stop entirely. It's just too infectious, even if he has yet to tell her how to do it quite right. Damn this. Damn him. ]
Do forgive me if someone has already informed you, Richie, but you are very loud. [ Said just deliberately enough to fall short of polite, while skirting just above the threshold of genuinely jabbing. ] But all noisiness aside, I can sense that it is you, just fine. Consider it another spiritous trick up my sleeve. It is the finer movements I cannot pick up...
[ Such as that sprightly grapevining he's doing there in his two-step... She doesn't know what grapevining is, this is getting her nowhere. ]
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"Sense" is too vague a concept to be relied on as a definition. From how she's talking Richie figures it's something like how the hairs on the back of your neck raise when someone's spying on you from across the room. Little whiskers picking pings and hair trigger movements that your eyes and ears were to clumsy to catch. The steps she's making, though uncertain and mostly incorrect, show that she's able to catch something of what he's doing right now. It's the broad strokes of the dance.
He thinks he gets it. It's still so strange to him, and even now in the heavy thrum of the music and the gaiety of the party it reels him back to times where his own curious instincts locked him into action. Knowing to throw the sneezing powder when bullets had failed, shifting into a voice over the tormented scream he felt ping-ponging through his lungs. Knowing that he shouldn't take a bite of the fortune cookie before he'd broken it open...
Gee-yawd. Richie's stomach does a nasty curl as he battles back the image of cookie shards wedged in sclera, blood and ooze welling around the punctures, that brown iris staring unblinking up from the golden folds like a grisly pearl in a clam shell. Let's lay the horseshit in the grave where it belongs, Tozier, and enjoy yourself like you're supposed to.]
Finer movements, huh? [He'll deign not to commentate on the surreal notion of sensing for the time being. He can always needle her brain for particulars over a pint.] Okay okay—start off feet together, then step to the side.
[He does so himself, moving outside of the beat (though it kills him some, the glitter's compulsion demanding a more dedicated boogie) to ensure that she's able to follow along.] Step the other foot behind then side step again. Bring in that other foot with a tap. Then repeat in reverse.
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