this week's thrilling adventure: "make mine a double jeopardy" [open to multiple]

[bagropa]

Croach is wrenched from his dream by an explosion. It is followed by a hissing noise not unlike the sound of a laser pistol cutting through and cauterizing flesh. He is alert immediately, abandoning his nest to seek out the danger in the park. Danger that... he does not sense. Instead, he hears the sound of human laughter, and he remembers the significance of the current date. It is some sort of human holiday, celebrated (increasingly, of late) by the baffling tradition of colorful explosions, perhaps as some sort of attempt to recreate a successful battle in their history. Regardless, it is unsafe, and Croach tracks the source of the explosions and warns the younglings away from using explosive devices. (It does not require much to convince them; they are eager to leave once he arrives, surely guilty upon being caught.)

He has been on this planet for fifty-seven days, he tabulates, as he dismantles the explosive to harvest the primitive chemicals within for use in new techno arrows. He has run out, unable to repair the damage done to the few he arrived with during the course of his travels and rescues. He has explored the length and breadth of the island and come no closer to discovering the purpose of his presence. He has learned that the denizens of the city are not always receptive to his assistance - in half of the assaults in which he has intervened, the victim has attacked him, often due to his appearance or 'nerve' or something called the 'patriarchy'.

It is... frustrating, he decides, emptying the black powder into a pouch and cinching it shut. He cannot identify the emotions this lack of progress causes him to experience and he is uncomfortable confiding in any of the - friends - he has made so far. He knows they are negative emotions - he recognizes the unpleasant feeling in his lower intestines - but they are either too foreign or too complicated to name in detail. Not that he has thought hard about that, really. He has actually put significant effort into not identifying the emotions. They make him agitated, and though he would deny it if anyone asked, he knows it has been showing. The way he treated the younglings he chased away was not kind, he will admit. They left abruptly because they were frightened, not apologetic. But he does not wish to acknowledge his emotions, because he fears - yes, he fears - that if he does, he might realize that there is no reason for his presence and, as several have insisted, no way to return to his home.

Croach returns to his nest with his find, hiding it safely in the cover of the roots of a tree. He has not ventured far from the area for the past Earth week, deciding instead to provide himself with a more comfortable and perma-- a more suitable place to live. In his explorations, he found a abandoned cave full of animal skins. He praised Nah Nohtek for the gift and took them to the copse he calls his own, intending to build a tent. He finds himself inexplicably reluctant to do so, though - to do anything, short of helping those within proximity who require urgent assistance. He has not visited Sunshine four Earth days. He wonders if she has noticed his absence.

That is not an entirely unfamiliar emotion, he realizes. He wondered that often about Sparks Nevada after he declared his onus complete and left, leaving Sparks Nevada with the author Rebecca Rose Rushmore. The Red Plains Rider had, concurrently, wedded Cactoid Jim. Croach had felt… superfluous. He had lied openly to Sparks Nevada in order to disguise his reaction, declaring that he would return to his tribe indefinitely. He did not feel successful when Sparks Nevada believed him. He had experienced - sadness.

Putting names to his emotions - frustration, sadness, loneliness - does not make them easier to bear. But something had, he recalls, and his feet carry him south out of the park with purpose that he has thus far lacked.

“I wish to begin a tabulation,” he declares with more confidence than he has felt since he arrived in the city, sitting heavily on a stool at the bar in Wilmot’s End. He has heard it is open to - that they would not be averse to his appearance. “One of your wheat-based beverages. You may entrust me with the bottle.”


((WHO WANTS TO GET SUPER DRUNK WITH CROACH because he is going to get pretty drunk. He will eventually be leaving with someone - not like that, gosh - but in the meantime he will be... an inappropriate drunk.))

Comments

[rae_of_sun]

It's almost 5:30 by the time Sunshine makes it to Wilmot's End. Maybe she could have made it faster if she was used to traveling there, but meeting a carthaginian god of mischief the first time she checked the place out had sort of bumped it off her list of places to frequent.

Which is sort of too bad, because this feels like it might be an emergency. Croach's texts have colored her pretty concerned, and by this point, she's not convinced she'll even find him here. Maybe someone took him somewhere - whoever was responsible for plying him with alcohol in the first place - or maybe he just wandered off or something. The trouble with an inebriated Croach is that she can barely even imagine it, let alone begin to predict his behavior. As if being a Martian wasn't inexplicable enough.

She soon spots him, though, to her mingled trepidation and relief. Sunshine wends her way through the early evening crowd until she reaches the barstool upon which he's rather inelegantly perched. "Hey, Croach," she says, feeling as if she ought to brace herself for something, but unable to guess what.

[bagropa]

"I mere - merely dis... diz - wish," Croach is informing the unfortunate bar human, half-leaning over the bar in his insistence, elbow perilously close to his nearly half-empty bottle of vodka, "to hear the story of... of the robot's--" He stops abruptly when he senses Sunshine's familiar presence and sits down heavily on his stool, turning to raise his empty glass to her. "Being desin - gate... ed Sunshine!" he greets, looking pleased by her presence. "Bar human! A... one... for my friend," he declares, "and one for Croach the Fra-- Tracker." He pours himself another glass from his bottle.

[rae_of_sun]

Gods and frigging angels. How long has he been drinking? From the smell of things, she could just about stick a wick in him and use him for a carthaginian lamp. Sunshine sits on the neighboring barstool - it's not quite crowded enough for every seat to be in demand, and it seems the other denizens of the bar are giving Croach a comparatively wide berth - and faces him, one elbow on the bar, ready to make a grab for him if he ends up falling off his stool.

"How are you doing?" she cautiously asks, peering over at him. Then, because she can't help it, "I thought you didn't… prefer… this kind of thing." She tips a pointed look in the vodka's general direction.

[bagropa]

"I do not," Croach says vehemently, pouring a drink for Sunshine when the bartender brings another glass, then blithely taking a large sip from that glass instead. "It isn-- is not that the taste is dis... dis-- bagropa. Bad," he assures both Sunshine and the bartender, antennae sinking as he slouches. "It is... the worst."

[rae_of_sun]

Sunshine arches an eyebrow as Croach takes a generous sip of what was ostensibly her drink, but she doesn't object. It's not like she came here to get good and hammered. Her other eyebrow joins the first when he comes perilously close to using a contraction. He must really be out of his gourd.

"Vodka is a bold choice for someone who doesn't normally drink," she agrees, propping her head in her hand so she's closer to Croach's level.

So, Croach is completely plastered. No one else seems to be keeping much of an eye on him except for the bartender, who just looks kind of resigned, so this wasn't anyone else's doing. Either Croach just decided, apropos of nothing, that he was going to tackle an entire bottle of vodka all by himself… or something triggered this.

What could drive a clinically unflappable Martian to total inebriation? Well, whatever the answer, she doesn't want to try and wheedle it out of him here while he continues to drink straight vodka like it's his job.

"Hey," she says, giving him a light nudge with her foot, "why don't we go back to my place? I'll make you something delicious."

[bagropa]

Croach is both offended and alarmed by the suggestion that he drinks abnormally. Is it the manner in which he imbibes? The way he holds the glassware? What dumb human ritual has he overlooked now? He sets down his glass (since when are there two?) and puzzles over this at length, going so far as to mime his way through taking a sip of his drink to check for errors.

"Being desin-- Sunshine," he begins gently, attempting tact, which apparently humans desire in these situations. "My bioglogic... my... I am not c--" He shakes his head, antennae flopping. "I do not wish to populate with you." He laughs once. "Populate! That is... akin to the word I - copulate." Then, "Is what I do not... wish to do." Then, "With you."

[rae_of_sun]

It's too bad that he has her drink, because now would be an excellent time for a spit-take. "No!" Sunshine says sharply, and then she looks appalled with herself, because she's not out to insult him. She tries again, a bit more gently. "Um. No. That, uh - that was not what I was… trying to suggest," she says, leaning back a little and raising her hands in a hopefully universal gesture of 'no, thank you.' Even if she was interested, the biological incompatibility was sort of assumed. And she's made enough questionable sexual choices for one week.

"I just…" she flounders a little, because how do you respectfully suggest to a goddamn Martian that you think he's had enough? "I mean, how often do you… do this?" She makes a little hand gesture that neatly encapsulates him and his beverage. "When was the last time you got drunk?"

[bagropa]

Croach lets out a relieved sigh, sinking and then attempting to sit up straight, catching himself on Sunshine's extended arm when he threatens to tip backward. "Praise Nah Nohtek," he mutters gratefully. Copulating with humans, so gross.

He concentrates hard for a moment. "One moon - moon? One mil... lenium." He snorts, but the humor passes quickly. "Two Earth - bagropa, what do you - years? Was the last."

[rae_of_sun]

Well, at least they're all on the same page, there. Yeesh. Sunshine steadies him more or less automatically when he almost reels back off of his stool, most of her focus on her impending word choice.

"Okay," she says. "All I'm… suggesting… is that maybe you should stop drinking alcohol and eat something. And that it might be helpful to have a sober person," and here she places an indicative palm to her chest, "keep an eye on you to make sure you don't pass out and die. That's why I invited you to my place." Not drunk Martian sex, and she lets out a quiet huff of amusement before pulling a wry smile. "I'm just trying to look out for you, Croach. That's what friends do." There might be a very slight but pointed emphasis on 'friends.'

CROWLEY ALWAYS WANTS TO GET SUPER DRUNK

[anguiform]

Crowley's still in the process of scoping things out in this new Manhattan. Thus far he's not had a chance to do much other than get attacked by some other universe's not-quite-angel, and then run into Aziraphale, who, out of long habit, took up much of the rest of that day. But he'd got the lowdown about this Wilmot's End place during his orientation at ROMAC; neutral ground, so they'd said, which Crowley had to wonder about.

Of course, there is a history of drinking establishments in war zones, or coasts frequented by pirates, or suchlike, successfully catering to all concerned without conflict, but Crowley's a cynic. Stick enough people in one place with enough booze and there's bound to be a few fights, even without factional disputes thrown into the mix.

So when Crowley wanders into Wilmot's End late in the afternoon, it's with a combination of curiosity, a general approval of places where he can get alcohol, and the definite sense that this is a place where he might be able to work a judicious bit of mischief. He might not be on Hell's payroll anymore¹, but he is still a demon.

It's a pleasant-looking little pub, nice wood trim, suitably aged mirror behind the bar, the lot. Not exactly hopping at half four on a Thursday, despite the holiday, but there is one patron who immediately catches his eye. Slouched on a barstool with a bottle in front of him is what can only be described as an alien. Crowley isn't sure if there are aliens in his universe (he doesn't think so, and according to Aziraphale, no-one in the celestial ranks has heard of such a thing, but who even knows with God anymore?), but he's seen films, he knows the drill. And this one's got blue skin, big black eyes, antennae, the lot.

Crowley therefore promptly slides in next to him, signalling the bartender to order a glass of the best red they have, and cocks an eyebrow at the alien. 'Getting started early?'

¹ Probably^2
2 Not that he was getting paid in the first place.

[bagropa]

Croach raises one eyebrow severely at the stranger, sitting up slightly from where he was slouched over the bar. It is not that he possesses bad posture, but that it is extremely difficult to sit upright while inebriated. Perhaps they have adjusted the gravity - but no, they do not possess that technology here presently. In the past. On the planet designated Earth.

"I... do not understand," Croach admits, looking suspicious. Then, mumbling into his drink, "You do not... you smell - like - a thing."

[anguiform]

'English colloquialism,' Crowley explains dismissively, with a wave of one hand. 'Doesn't matter.'

The alien, whoever he is, is well on his way to being quite thoroughly rat-arsed, and Crowley chuckles a little, other eyebrow lifting to join the first. 'What don't I smell like?'

[bagropa]

"The milk of a butt," Croach says insistently, face flushing slightly more purple than it already is. He tops off his glass, which was not particularly empty. "Which you would des... which you would call humans." There is an almost derisive emphasis on 'humans', except, you know, the Croach does not feel emotions like disdain, or any at all, and also his emotional expression is not exacerbated by alcohol. So. "Or you would not! Because... you are not one."

[anguiform]

This time, his chuckle turns into a cough as Crowley chokes inelegantly on his wine. He absolutely does not dribble any down his chin, nor wipe it off with a swipe of his cuff. Now there's a turn of phrase he's not heard before.

Choking amusement gives way to something rather more patient and interested, as he watches the alien stumble his way through an explanation. 'That's something we've got in common, then,' he says agreeably. 'Unless you've just had a hell of a lot of cosmetic surgery. How can you tell?'

Humans can't, unless he's got his sunglasses off, and even then, most are more likely to think he's just wearing coloured contacts. Other supernatural beings sometimes can, depending on the sort and strength, but aliens are something new.