grabme: (nnnnot sure what to make of this tbh)
[personal profile] grabme
This whole human business is really terribly, terribly complicated. How do they keep track of everything that needs doing all the time? He has keys - multiple! - and a little black square of a phone and an entire apartment he's supposed to be taking care of, only it doesn't seem to require the same kind of constant maintenance as, say, a certain Enrichment Center. Days of cautious experimentation have yielded certain infrequent results: the silver boxy thing in the corner dings cheerily and heats up when its trigger is depressed. Doing it three times successively isn't recommended, he's learned, when the box starts belching black smoke and sets some kind of alarm squealing and he dashes out of the apartment with his arms flung high over his head and nearly crashes slap-bang into a wall. Aside from the occasional hiccup - very occasional, certainly no more than once or twice a day, he's quite sure of that - it's been a very particular time of adjusting to the stumbling inadequacies of his newfound humanship.

His middle groans periodically with something, possibly hunger since food is, well, it's a thing humans need which is a bloody well inefficient means of refueling, and his head aches and he's got to remember to jam the great large-framed glasses over the bridge of his nose every morning, and it is an absolute bloody pain to remember every morning. The Enrichment Center didn't even have mornings.

It's a morning like any other morning when he puts key to lock, except for the part where he steps from apartment to a place that is not the hall just outside the apartment and Wheatley experiences a moment of pure, all-encompassing terror as he thinks, for a moment, that he's right back in the old Enrichment Center with Her shifting the cold matte black cubes of the facility around in Her overcomplicated chess games.

[ooc: old Wheatley's been hit by the Master Key and is not having a good time.]
fucking_ebay: (misc | pouring a drink)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
It's tempting -- maybe surprisingly tempting to anyone who doesn't know Peter as well as he knows himself -- to just burn it all and start over. A penthouse (not to mention an actual fucking return to the stage) should mean matching furniture and built-ins, shiny new fixtures, and all the details and decorations planned and picked down to the silk sheets and the display cases he's sure to start filling with spooky crap and detritus rare supernatural artifacts and top of the line weapons.

Unfortunately, his time in New York has made him unpleasantly practical. The rickety bed, the ratty couch, the TV Gabe brought him (alright, that's at least decent) will all have to do, at least to start with. He's not a headliner again yet, and he's starved himself enough months to finally start relearning how to live on a budget. That includes not taking the lazy way out and hiring movers to get his stuff from one place to another literally within a few blocks (he seriously considered it), so this morning he's boxing up the last of the odds and ends that make up his life and stinking up his old apartment with a celebratory cigar for good measure. At least there's not much -- it's a tiny apartment and he never had money, so the problem is going to be less one of bulk and more one of the penthouse probably looking fucking empty even once he's unpacked again.

Bee's due any minute, insistent as she is on helping despite it being unclear to Peter what she's getting out of it. That probably means the cigar is a bit ill-advised (he's fairly sure they're not allowed to smoke indoors at all), but he'd come across it while packing and it seemed stupid to put a lone cigar in one of the boxes. Anyway, it's not his apartment anymore, and not his problem.
fucking_ebay: (misc | teleportation)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
Peter's a far cry from the shrinking violet he used to be when it came to taking advantage of his powers. Or power, singular, but now that he can use it properly he has to admit that it's a fucking good power.

So fucking good that maybe he's become just a bit cavalier with it.

Really, teleporting while drunk could have gone much worse. The thought is sobering, but not sobering enough to prevent him from stumbling over to fetch up against Seth's refrigerator with a giddy, nervous laugh when it registers that no, this is definitely not Gabriel's flat. "Jesus," he says, brushing it off in that way one can when one is not quite entirely mentally present. "That was a piss poor idea. Where the fuck?"


Apr. 26th, 2015 07:28 pm
applesaucemod: (Default)
[personal profile] applesaucemod
All is right in Manhattan this week.

It is a week like any other. The little creatures that dot the surface of the land scuttle to and fro about their business, each amusingly convinced of its own importance. A number of them relocate themselves with an unusual degree of difficulty. Some die. Some do not die. One or two new ones, the special kind, arrive.

And then…and then something is not right in Manhattan. Something is, in fact, wrong, incorrect, and unacceptable. Two -- no, four -- no, two of the little scuttling things --


-- WHY CAN'T IT --



Gone!! The Rift claps furiously closed, but too late. Too late! They're gone, they've left, and they had no right! It did not permit them! Two they took with them only even existed thanks to the Rift, and those -- THOSE UPSTARTS --

It can't reach the ones who caused the superficial injury that's already healing (that's scarring over, it will NEVER AGAIN ALLOW THIS), and so the Rift lashes out at the ones who remain in their place. It can feel the little pets that remain, all of them, and it will remind them who owns them.

[OOC: Right! Andrew and James have escaped from New York just like Snake Plissken and the Rift is having a shitfit over it. Tag into this post for general Rift-related shenanigans; there will be a separate post for characters who want to attack ROMAC.

The Rift will inflict a wide variety of little inconveniences and torments on the people it considers its own, and players can choose what their characters will face. These should be things that could more or less go unnoticed by the population at large (so no city-wide effects, and please be careful to avoid anything that would effectively godmode other people's characters). Anything that's happened in a past Rift event is fair game, as are personal rainclouds, randomly appearing objects and animals, involuntary transformations, and just about anything else on the personal level. On a somewhat broader level, expect to find random acres of the Ramble transformed into jungle, redwood forest, wintery pines, and various other types of Incorrect Wilderness.]
has_a_horn: (finger pistols)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
Few things about this magic show he's promised Peter have actually been worked out. The one thing they do have is a theater. It's a smallish house with a good stage and decent acoustics, which is good enough for a first trial run of Peter's first real magic show in this universe. If it does well, maybe he'll spring for a bigger venue.

Today, he's rented it out for a few hours so that Peter can get a feel for the room and they can start putting the show together. Gabriel actually feels a little excited about the prospect. The last few days haven't exactly been comfortable or fun, so focusing on something like Peter and a silly magic show seems like just the thing to offer some distraction.

He materializes in Peter's apartment a little after noon, not bothering to knock this time, and flops onto the couch. "Hey, Peter!"
fucking_ebay: (x goose)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
Something is definitely not right when Peter wakes up late in the morning. Since when does he pull his legs up into a fetal position when he sleeps on his back? He groans and stretches out his legs, reaching up to rub his eyes and --

And that's not the way legs and arms work -- nothing's moving right, it's like his joints are in the wrong places or stuck moving in weird ways and THOSE ARE FEATHERS --!!!

Peter goes from zero to feathery tornado in three seconds flat, honking and squawking his head off as he kicks and beats at the sheets with the wings he suddenly has today. Beds are not made for geese, nor geese for beds, and for a solid minute he mostly succeeds in making things worse until he finally squirms free and fights his way upright, panting and still as he catches his breath.

Well, shit. Could this be a dream? Maybe it's just a dream. It wouldn't be the first time he dreamed he was an animal. Biting himself, however, results in pain, which either means it's not a dream or that's just a stupid way of testing because maybe he can feel pain in dreams here. He wouldn't put it past the Rift. Right, so he's got to do something about it. He just needs to -- if he can just -- maybe if he --

HE'S A FUCKING GOOSE. Peter scrambles off the bed, crashing to the floor and clambering back to his feet to make a mad run to where he left his phone on the couch. Except he can't use it when he gets there because he's a FUCKING GOOSE and all he manages to do is drag it onto the floor and peck uselessly at the screen.
i_jones: (thank you intern ianto)
[personal profile] i_jones
Once you get to the TARDIS - because you did follow those blue balloons through Central Park, didn't you, you got that clue, and maybe those of you with good (or not-bad) intentions found it a little easier to find, and were drawn to it, even - anyway, once you get to the TARDIS, you find a sign on the door, which is ajar. No, not that sign, a handwritten sign taped to the front that says PARTY (I PROMISE) with an arrow pointing inside. And yes, oh, isn't the console room nice, how merry-go-round, whatever. More importantly, there are signs on every door out of the room that say assorted things like PARTY THIS WAY and ALSO THIS WAY and JUST PICK ONE REALLY. There is one festive balloon tied to the console.

If you go through any or all of the doors, you'll find yourself in a room with a very large pool (that one might say looks like this one except much grander in scale). The pool is lined, not excessively, with taps in various shapes, sizes, and colors. Some pump out bubbles, some foam, some clouds, some... who knows? Surrounding the pool are chairs and tables with appetizers, desserts, drinks, and various types of cake. Also pie. There's a jukebox tucked into a corner playing a mixture of 80s songs, unfamiliar songs from various points in the future, and the occasional song in an alien language with a good beat. There are rooms if you need to change, and some doors might even take you to the wardrobe room if you need a bathing suit. And I guess you could explore further if you really wanted to, but why do that when you can party? Because most doors will probably lead you back to the pool room, let's be real.
fucking_ebay: (angry | get out of my house)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
It's like he's become completely invisible, but when he looks at himself in the mirror (as he increasingly does for reassurance rather than vanity), he's still there. Others don't seem to agree, though. It's not the deliberate looking away of potential punters resisting an attempt to real them in for a show, but a total failure to even see that he's there to be avoided. Even people he knows pass him by like he's not there.

Finally, on the second day, he snaps. He grabs the shoulder of a woman walking by and wrenches her around to face him...but she slips out from under his grasp like a wisp of air and keeps walking, oblivious. "Look at me!" he snaps at a man going the other way, whose eyes seem to look right through him before sliding by to gaze at something in the distance. "Fucking stop!" demands Peter, putting himself in the way of a third pedestrian, who shoulders past like Peter weighs as much as a feather.

This continues for several minutes, Peter becoming more and more strident in his attempts to get someone, anyone to acknowledge his presence. It culminates when he comes across a hotdog stand and literally slaps the food out of a customer's hand. "...Damn wind," says the vendor, but Peter gleans some iota of comfort from the man's look of confusion.
rae_of_sun: (pleased)
[personal profile] rae_of_sun
Well, if there's ever been a reason for Sunshine to start pushing herself in the magic-handling department, the arrival of a mega-toxic kali nightmare goon from wherever-the-hell - and a subsequent text containing a ward symbol against said nightmare goon - definitely qualifies. Gods, has she missed wards. And, okay, she finds it a little hard to fully trust the effectiveness of a ward symbol drawn by… well, anyone aside from an accredited wardsmith (herself included)… but if there's even a slight chance that it'll work, she will gladly wallpaper the entire damn building with the thing.

Better to start small, though, especially if what she's going for is 'permanent.' Which is why she's standing outside her own apartment door with the little image of the symbol pulled up on her phone. She examines the picture with a tight little frown, memorizing the details in case intent is not enough. Then she tucks her phone into the back pocket of her shorts and braces her palms against the door.

Okay. She can do this. It's big - far bigger than anything she's attempted before - but it's only wood. Easy compared to metal or stone. And her grandmother said she could do anything in bright sunlight, and there's plenty of that shining in through the window at the end of the hall, all of two feet to her right. So.

Sunshine shuts her eyes, pictures the ward symbol as clearly as she can, and shoves.

A bolt of power runs down her arms and into her door, the recoil strong enough to force her back a pace. She opens her eyes, regains her balance, and takes in her new door.

At first, she thinks it was a bust; the change is so subtle. But then she realizes that the ward symbol is there, right in the middle of her door and as large as a dinner plate. It's visible only because the grain of the wood abruptly changes direction, like an incredibly fine inlay. She steps closer and runs her fingertips over the line where symbol ends and door begins, but she can't feel a seam.

"Gods," she breathes. Could she darken it? Probably, yes, if she tried again. Make it a bit more obvious, if that's what's needed. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. It worked. How's that for permanent?

Okay. She'll come back to her own door later. First, she has to do Spike's. And then the main entrances. And then the windowsills. And then literally every other flat surface she can reach.

[ooc: Sunshine is gonna spend the day WARDING ALL THE THINGS, so feel free to have your character run into her in any given hallway, down by the front door, or even up on the roof. Pretty much anywhere in the rebel apartment building is fair game. And hey, she'll probably ward your door if you ask nicely.]
peacefulexplorer: (endless days finally ending in a blaze)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
He's been counting the days since he arrived and has gradually come to accept that the way home might not be as straightforward as he'd hoped. Or existent. Daniel has concluded that he can be reasonably sure he's not dead, which has its ups and downs (the ups being, hey, he's not dead, and the downs being that he kind of wishes that he were, because at least that way he'd have some idea of how to get out of it).

Lucy's apartment has been a welcome refuge, but it can only hold him for so long. He probably still looks horrendously out of place in the black military-issue tee and BDU pants, though at least he's no longer covered in alien dust and panicking over spontaneous space-time displacement, so there's that. And wandering around like this might not be the best idea Daniel's ever had ever, admittedly. All the same, right now he needs movement to stimulate thought. He needs forward movement to make him feel like he has an attainable goal. He needs movement and he needs it not to be as directionless as he's feeling just now, and Daniel can already tell that he's more or less failed in that regard.

Daniel realizes a little too late that the park is very big and he might possibly be very lost. Possibly definitely.

He turns slowly on the spot, frowns, starts looking for signs and, finding none, turns to the nearest passerby.

"Hey, ah. This might sound strange, but I'm, uh, I'm a little lost."
fucking_ebay: (sad | contemplative self-loathing)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
Peter appears in the middle of Gabriel's living room in a flash of smoke and fire, as one does. He's remembered to both get dressed and bring his keys this time, though by the look on his face it's probably fairly obvious he's not sure why he agreed to come. He wants to see Gabriel, of course, prove to himself that his friend the angel really is alive and better and not in the midst of another suicide attempt. On the other hand, he still feels more than a little resentment over....well, everything. He didn't even know Gabriel had left the TARDIS until he got the text demanding his presence for a bender.

"You didn't say you'd come home," he says reproachfully, because that seems like a good way to kick off this conversation.
apidae: (Default)
[personal profile] apidae
Early Monday morning, Bee rises with no alarm (she has never needed an alarm with the sun to greet her) and pulls on her same favorite dress. She's almost never needed to wash it (once, a couple days ago, when she suddenly seemed to be sweating again) - it seems like entropy has left her behind, or stayed back home. No one else seems to have this luxury. It's kind of nice, Bee supposes.

Nicer still is the email she's received on her phone. She's been approved! She can raise her darlings on the roof as soon as she pleases. She can't keep from dancing around her apartment for a moment. She eats an orange - well, she has to eat something - and licks the juice from her fingers, which refuse to get sticky. She's going to go out today. Maybe Daine can help her find a colony that would like to move.

Now, now, Bee, mustn't get too far ahead. First she should let everyone else know. She'd decided some time ago that as soon as she got her approval, she'd do the courteous thing and inform her neighbors. At least, that's what seems courteous and reasonable to her. Anyone could have an allergy! Or a phobia, for that matter. Or, someone might wander up not realizing, might abuse her darlings, god forbid. It's only proper. And this way, she'll finally get to meet her neighbors.

Not bothering to put shoes on, as usual, Bee steps out and begins progressing from door to door, knocking, waiting, knocking again, and leaving a little note she'd prepared in advance if she doesn't get an answer. Much nicer to get answers, though. Apartment buildings can be so lonely.

[[ooc: If you live in the Rebel Apartments, feel free to respond and react to Bee's exciting news! She'd just love to meet you.]]
fucking_ebay: (misc | teleportation)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
Peter doesn't wait for Seth's last reply before deciding to take matters into his own hands. He's not sure what he expects to find when he teleports to Gabriel's apartment, and having to do the trip in several jumps gives him a few moments to think about that and feel like an idiot. Still, he's not going to appear half drunk in the bathroom of McDonald's in his bathrobe for nothing; once he's committed to making the trip he sees it through and arrives in Gabe's empty living room in a flash of pyrotechnics.

Maybe he expects to find Gabriel smirking at him from the couch. What he finds instead, though, is the place looking empty and run-down, the carpet more worn than he remembers from the last time he was in here. Peter stands in the middle of the flat, feeling foolish.

"Gabe?" he calls, listening for an answer before striding over the bedroom to check in there. "Come on, don't pull this bullshit. Why'd you have Seth text me? It's Godzilla attacking again, isn't it?"

Nothing. Cursing, he kicks the bedroom door and then hisses when it hurts his bare foot rather a lot. "Fucker!" he shouts at no one in particular.
has_a_horn: (i swear | you fucker)
[personal profile] has_a_horn
Gabriel returns Lucy to her apartment the day after she prayed to him in a panic because of Peter. No matter what the circumstances were, he's not feeling particularly fond of Peter at the moment, and he needs to make sure that this kind of thing isn't going to happen again.

He smirks as he leaves Lucy's. He's going to scare the shit out of Peter and it's going to be hilarious and justified.

He doesn't use the door. He teleports right in, a few feet away from where Peter is sitting. He's shining, from head to foot the color of polished bronze. His hands look like they're made of diamond or citrine: shining, hard, and dangerous. As he turns to look at Peter his eyes fill with fire, and the air around him crackles with electricity and the sharp smell of ozone.

He takes a step towards Peter, and the shadow of his wings lifts up behind him. When he speaks, the sound is loud, grating to the ear, and rumbles away like a thunderclap. "Peter."
essentiallyharmless: (Hot as fire)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
As has been usual lately, Lucy has trouble falling asleep, and difficulty making it stick once she finally does. She's ended up in this rhythm of getting only three or four hours of sleep, until it builds up and she passes out for a dozen hours. No matter what, she always seems to end up tired.

Johnny seems to be much the same, so when Lucy finally gives up on sleep, she sits up carefully and takes down one of her books, rather than start clanging around the kitchen making tea, when Johnny is actually asleep for the moment. And since they had such a late night, it's well into the morning by now, with quite enough sunlight coming in through her light curtains for her to read by.
vlad_dracul: (peeks)
[personal profile] vlad_dracul
Once Dracula learned that the soil of this land would give him sleep, he set to work. He had no desire to become involved in the conflict between ROMAC and the rebels, particularly with such scant information. Fortunately, his actual needs were simple. He needed blood, easily supplied by the rats and vermin of the city. He also needed a place to sleep. Well, sleeping in a coffin, even one occupied, was something he had done before, when necessary.

He preferred a comfortable house or apartment, though. For that, he needed money. He had a small bit of gold in the lining of his jacket, a holdover from more dangerous times, but selling the gold would probably draw more attention than he wanted. Dracula needed a way to earn some honest money. He refused to stoop to crime, especially theft, which he despised. Fortunately, this city, even more than others, had a criminal underbelly willing to cater to those in need of new identities. After earning a small amount of money doing odd jobs, Dracula was able to get enough identification to get a least in places that didn't check backgrounds too carefully.

Now, Dracula is gainfully employed as a bouncer at Wilmot's End. His job includes breaking up fights, preferably before they begin, and making sure minors don't sneak up onto the second floor. Dracula goes back and forth between the floors, making sure the clientele can see him clearly. Wilmot's End has a reputation for not tolerating trouble and Dracula has not hurt that reputation at all. He wears the uniform of black jeans and a black button up shirt well. It's an easy job and Dracula rather enjoys it, even if it is somewhat menial. Ah well. He's developing a solid reputation and gets along with most people.

Even on busy nights, Dracula tries to find time to talk with the clientele. The more they know him and the friendlier the relations are, the easier it is to get people to listen and cooperate. He's always willing to chat for a bit.
essentiallyharmless: (Ugly as a toad)
[personal profile] essentiallyharmless
After her conversation with Aly last night, Lucy immediately found a 24-hour pharmacy, bought a pregnancy test, and went straight home.

It took her half the night before getting up the nerve to use it, and by the next morning, at the very most she's only briefly dozed off, still in last night's dress, and her hair having gradually come undone.

She manages to wait till nine in the morning, knowing Peter is pretty much never up before then, before she hurriedly heads down the hall, knocking loudly at his door, her hands shaking.

[Content warning: Discussions of abortion, and quite probably some deeply emotionally unhealthy behavior. And sex, probably. Or sexual behavior, at any rate.]
has_a_horn: (taking you to school)
[personal profile] has_a_horn

There's something new about the city this afternoon. It's not particularly hard to miss. At about noon, a giant scaled figure emerges from the Hudson River, emits a loud screeching roar, and heads for central park.

It's Godzilla, straight out of the 1954 Toho film.

Or, rather, that's what it looks like. Gabriel has a scheme, and this scheme involves in-fluxing a little bit of fun into this city with a grand-scale illusion. His idea of fun might need some work, by human standards, but this is exactly the thing for him at the moment. There are news reports on the radio and television, both in English and in Japanese, but they aren't given by any newscasters anyone in New York might be familiar with, because Gabriel is projecting them.

As Godzilla shakes the water off it's back and walks onto the island, Gabriel pulls out his phone and texts Peter. He really needs him involved with this.

[ooc: Godzilla will make his way across the city, having a good smash. Feel free to run into it anywhere. As this is Gabe's illusion, any interactions with Godzilla will be controlled by Gabriel, even if he's not nearby. People Gabriel doesn't like might want to avoid getting underfoot, or else they'll feel the bone crunching effects of being stepped on, even if nothing has actually happened.]
last_of_shadows: (Default)
[personal profile] last_of_shadows
He felt the Doomgiver die. He felt the sudden sundering of the connection to his fellow Shadowtroopers that had become a lifeline to him. The Jedi were closing - the raining swamps of Yavin had become a killing ground. Why couldn't he feel their hate? He had been trained, trained for years, to hate them - hate the rebels. But in the moment he, felt the Jedi fighting them, bringing down his fellows all around him.

Lightsaber-resistant armour or not, it didn't stop their blades forever. There where weaknesses, and they found them. They did it without hate, without rage. But with a terrible determination - and pity. It was more terrifying to him than anything he had ever experienced.

He fell back, clutching at his head, as if his fingers could reach through the cortosis helmet and stop what he was feeling. He reeled, rebounding off a pillar and falling to his knees, scrambling away. He held to his red lightsaber like grim death, utterly unsure what to do. Part of him, dimly, realized just how damaged his mind had become. But had no idea what to do.

The Jedi had reminded him of a past. Before the Force had been infused into him, before the Empire. When he had just walked under a warm sun and felt nothing but peace, and a yearning for adventure, to do greater things. Half his life warred with the other half, and he had no idea what would win.

In that moment, he hoped a Jedi's saber would find him soon. And end the confusion.

But instead there was...something. And then he realized he had awoken.

He sat up, suddenly, breathing heavily. This isn't Yavin. He could feel it, with the Force. It felt...wrong. He couldn't explain how. And he was in a park. A strange, alien world, that much was clear.

With a groan, he rolled onto his side, and then pushed himself to his knees. He checked, briefly, to ensure his Artusian crystal was still mounted into his chestplate. Much as he hated it, he needed the Force now. And he had no idea, none at all, what would happen if he lost it.

He searched for a comlink, the need to understand temporarily quieting the raging maelstrom in his mind. He needed the others. He needed someone.

Because in this strange land, he had no idea whatsoever what he was going to do. Was he SW-493? Or Gavin Thayne? Time would tell.
johnny_truant: (scared)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
Goddammit. He's always hated New York.

Johnny doesn't fully understand what's just happened, but that's nothing new, is it? He's standing in the middle of Central Park - he knows it's Central Park because he's standing on top of that big weird rock formation, all those boulders heaped on top of each other for kids to climb on while their parents pretend not to be run ragged with panic, the certainty that kid will slip and fall and die. Or don't pretend. Or don't panic. The point is it's recognizable.

The point is also he wasn't here before. Like minutes before. Seconds. Blink of an eye. He was there, out there, Seattle, Portland, LA, somewhere. Somewhere in Virginia. Doesn't matter. He loses track very easily. Maybe he lost track all the way into Manhattan.

That's not right though, is it? Doesn't seem right. Doesn't feel right.

No. Something's happened. Something wrong.

Things are different. The air is different. Tastes different. It's not just New York, no. New York has a taste and a smell but this is not it. This is not right.

"No," Johnny says. "No, no, no."

He stumbles down from the misbegotten rock pile, skids, hurtles to the ground and almost hurts himself. DOES hurt himself but it's okay. Staggers. Straightens up.

He feels different. His hands are tingling. Maybe. Unless he's making that up, too.

No, it's real. He can feel things. Hear things. There's something there. Right there. Right there next to him. Oh no, no, no.

"Don't -!" He shuts himself up before he can finish his demand, snapping himself to the left, to look at the beast that he knows is there, the one he's seen so many times before, in the nighttime, in the corner of his eye, in the pages of the book. It's the thing that haunts him. One of the things. Teeth and void and claws like knives.

It's not there. It's never there. Never when he turns to see it.

And now everything else is gone too. And maybe that's good. It was all poison anyway, a toxic ruined mess. Turn your back on everything, Johnny Truant. Your everything is bad for you, and this, this transportation, whatever this is, it is a gift horse you don't need to inspect. You're not in Kansas anymore. You are new, in living color. Your demons came with you but maybe now, with your hands that don't feel right and your senses that are heightened, maybe now you can outrun them.

"Fine," he says to the park, to the city, to the situation. "Whatever you say."

There's a hesitation, like what does he do now that he's made this declaration? Start walking seems like the thing. Before he can take a step he senses he's about to step on something. He looks down. His shoes are so dirty.

It's a rabbit. Poofy, gray, twitching its nose at him. Not very skittish, surprisingly so, he thinks. Then again he hasn't been around too many rabbits.

"Uhhh," he says. "Hi."

The rabbit is apparently content to just hang out next to his shoe.

Johnny looks around. Does this rabbit belong to someone? Scratch that, does he care? No. Motivated by something, god knows what, he leans down and scoops the rabbit up into his arms. He half expects it to start wriggling and kicking, but it seems fine with this. Okay. This is the first thing that's not wanted to get the hell away from him in a long time. It's kind of nice, actually.

"Nice to meet you to," he says. "Uh. Thumper."

First thing to pop into his head. Oh god. Is it sick to name it Thumper? It's sick, right? Definitely sick.

Whatever. Thumper is a WELL KNOWN CARTOON RABBIT. No one has to know it's also what he called the stripper he almost made it with. Almost. It'll be like an homage. Sure. That's not weird. Not weird at all.

He tucks Thumper under his arm and starts moving.

[[he's gonna wander around for a while, so feel free to approach him!]]


bigapplesauce: (Default)
The Big Applesauce


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