capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 002

[She glances at her watch. Home is probably the best option at this point. She rips a page out of her notebook. ]

I am never too busy to listen to your problems. If you stay long enough you can have some take-out.

Nygma.

[ Norman flings Eddie against the brick wall of a building. ]

Hands to yourself, boy. Unless you want me breaking them.

Despite it being overwhelming, Karkat has felt all of this before. It isn't new -- merely intense and unexpected. It dawns on him that Ruka has collapsed, he remembers how the emotions she picks up are permanent, takes note of the tremble in her limbs, and it's the sight of her suffering -- suffering because of him, his stupid need to prove himself -- that yanks him out of the memory of imprisonment.

"Fuck," he gasps, and drops to his knees in front of her, grasping at the collar, trying to pry her fingers off of it, pull it from her grip. "Ruka, let go!"

Edited 2013-03-06 10:17 (UTC)

Boy? [Eddie didn't fight, with his back against the wall. He knew it to be a losing battle against Norman Osborn. He didn't fight back.

But he did keep talking.]

While I'm not encroaching seventy, I'm hardly a boy. Is that what you would call the man who escaped you?

She doesn't respond to him, in word or gesture or action. Her shoulders rise and fall, and her breathing verges on hyperventilation. They stack on her in cycles—misery and loneliness take root in all the same places as her own, settling into the dark depths, making room for the burden of his fear, filling up her stomach and her lungs.

Gold flickers in the darkness. Warm, distant. A wildfire, growing on the horizon.

A name?

She can't even feel his hands on hers, even as he pries her fingers loose from the broken device.

"Ruka, Ruka!" He repeats her name, growing more frantic at her lack of response. He doesn't want her to have to bear this. She shouldn't feel this. A flash of anger directed at her for inflicting it on herself flares up among the emotions still travelling from the collar to Ruka to Karkat. "Ruka. Ruka. Ruka, come on, Ruka, you insufferable moron, let it go."

He's denied the gold on the horizon she experiences: the impending dawn is hidden from him, as he continues to work at pulling her fingers away from the collar, one by one. It's difficult, what with the way his own hands shake, and he thinks he might be hurting her, but bruised and sore fingers are better than allowing her to continue to absorb his past.

Her teeth chatter and her fingers tremble, and of course there's pain, of course there's misery, an undercurrent's wish for death. Those final six months, compressed into six minutes. Even when the collar finally slips loose from her curled fingers, even with that connection severed, it doesn't erase what's already been taken. It doesn't remove the build-up inside her, still waiting to be felt, to be processed, to be filtered into the reservoirs of her heart, to reside and rot with all the rest.

Fear has her by the throat, but still she breathes in the warmth of that golden fire, growing ever brighter, burning through the darkness.

A strange figure kneels before her, his eyes reflecting so much light that they seem more like mirrors. A voice. A hand, touching hers.

He is going to destroy her.

She looks back up almost as soon as he starts talking, watching with her head slightly tilted and then almost as soon as he lies (because that was a lie, she's almost positive) her hands taken away from her keyboards and folded flat on the table in front of her.

"She's alive for the moment." A confirmation, casual, waiting to determine how to get at what it is that he's not saying. "Laying low. She has to be careful, they know they have a leak."

They all have to be careful. There's only a few ways to stay truly safe, and none of them are foolproof.

"What sort of busy day?" It would be a casual question, but she's not trying to pretend it is, back still very straight and arms still on the table in front of her, still and her focus on him instead of her work. She dislikes lying to people she considers allies, even in something as basic as manner, and he's not an exception to that rule.

There's a knock on John's flat door, one night.

It wasn't that that late, comparatively speaking, but it was late enough that visitors wouldn't normally be expected. Not normal visitors, anyway. But if the word on the street was good, nocturnal visitors weren't exactly something this guy turned away.

He didn't have a choice, anyway. Even if the bullet had only just grazed the edge of his upper arm, he was old enough that a would like that was a serious setback, not something he'd recover from earlier. He'd chosen this address above the others, because there was a chance of medical care. If it turned out his guess was wrong, well, he was fucked.

He waited on the doorstep, swaying slightly, the blood having seeped into his jacket beyond any hope of salvaging it.

Oh, ah... [oh, gosh. Steve looks down at himself, rapidly becoming aware of what a good skeleton-in-a-jumpsuit impression he's got going on. there's an anxious kind of laugh in his voice:] Kee-keeping busy, mostly! Some kind of busy, at any rate. It's not very glamorous, or...well... [a-ahaha.]

But. But you, you must be... [up and down and...oh. he's only just noticed.] Well, I would say you're radiant. Moreso! [a warmer look, to break up the embarrassment.] I do hope that means you're doing well.

The Norman Osborn? Slo-bo couldn't really ignore that, could he? A slow, lazy smirk tugged on his mouth, curling and baring teeth on one side.

"What," he puffed, "y'wan' an autograph? Lookin' to size up how many lives y'fragged compared t'me? Y'must be bored."

Bored, or of actual, present value. If anyone actually was itching for something to do, it was Slo-bo. Conscience be damned, he came from pretty active stock – he needed action. Preferably the kind that sent buildings down or limbs flying, attached or otherwise.

1530 Trumpet Lane. Building number three, 52nd complex, two days from now at dusk. [It sounds pretty real, legit even. But there is no such meeting taking place in two days. []

[It would be a lot easier to move his belongings if he had some help. But Yuma was working, and Astral was expected to do everything like this by himself, regardless of its difficulty.

It wasn't helping matters that Tweema was making such a racket in his cage. The papers mentioned that this complex was notably pet-friendly. Perhaps the other people living here wouldn't mind? Perhaps...

Who are we kidding? Being pessimistic was so much easier.

It's fairly obvious to him that they'll be getting many, many complaints for Tweema's noise.] Calm down, Tweema.

[Maybe the cries of this particularly stressed bird are familiar?]

[ The smoking had been more an educated guess than a certainty, but it was gratifying to see that he'd been right. He passed the lighter with more graciousness than strictly necessary, before shuffling aside to give the other man more room -- and to minimize the risk of bumping his injured shoulder if either of them moved too quickly.

He'd have to get more cigarettes, he thought. With the amount of stress just being here was putting on him, he needed something.

He was too lost in his own thoughts to pay attention to anything Adrian Maskin might be doing with his hands; any scuffling in the kitchen completely slipped his attention, though the odor of burning food would have caught it soon enough, even with the cigarette smoke. ]

Some people would say imports have done enough.

[ He gestured, case in point, at the moon, which was just visible from where they stood. Nobody had every quite gotten around to undoing how it had been defaced.

Nelson was taking a remarkably long time with that food. It was getting to the point that he'd probably go over and make sure he hadn't fallen unconscious in a casserole or something, once he'd finished his cigarette. ]

[Her agitation fades as quickly as it had come on. Of course he isn't. He's never registered, as far as she knows; she hadn't either, but she had also left the worst of import discrimination behind her. Being in Europe had its perks, to say the least. Certain people were willing to overlook certain things so long as you had something they wanted--or something they didn't want anyone else to have.

The rapidity with which he's drinking isn't lost on her, but she doesn't mention it. Again: it isn't her business. It's hard to make herself believe that. But better a flimsy shield than none at all.

This conversation is turning into nothing more than thinly veiled offers and reproaches. She takes her time on the screwdriver, blue eyes lingering on the phone for a moment too long before her gaze slides back to his face and those stupid glasses. At least nowadays they might have some practical use, what with hiding his distinctive red irises and all. The aviators still look ridiculous, though. She wishes he'd take them off so she could see his eyes and--

She stops the thought before it fully forms. None of that, now.]

The nice thing about it is that there's always room for one more.

[She isn't even trying anymore.]

Rose hands it over with little fuss. She gives the line a quick glance and shrugs at Nill as if to 'well, what can you do?'

She raises a hand, and says "wait a moment," under her breath before she reaches down into her purse and brings out a torn piece of paper. She scribbles her number down on it hastily before reaching over the table to slide atop the book.

She sits back down with all the daintiness of an elephant doing ballet.

"I know."

She gives Nepeta a kind look. Maybe it has been easier for Rose to live in hiding than it has been for most people. Humans are social creatures, but perhaps trolls even more so. Especially for people like Nepeta who thrive on the attention of their friends.

Her tea tastes bitter as she swallows it.

[He grunts out a vague noise, perhaps even amusement at his own habits. He's the one showing up unannounced with a gun at his side, and yet still dares to be the untrusting one. Ah, well, habits like that have kept him alive this long so he won't apologise for them.]

There's more to you than mere survival. You follow more than just the movements of the opposition on those computers of yours, of that I'm certain.

[The top of his own beer gets twisted off and flicked aside, swigging down a mouthful before continuing.] We're not the only ones left, there's plenty of others. Some just haven't been fortunate enough to have MI6 training under the belt when all hell broke loose.

If you stole my book, she thinks in a wry tone, I will personally smack talk you on my blog.

"A generous gift, I'm sure," she says and doesn't even sound a little ironic about it. Her book is a gift to the world. Authors wish they had written such a touching erotica book about a man and his tentacle lover.

Her elbow sits on the table and her cheek rests in her palm. She opens the first page of the book at signs PT.

You're being very reckless, Mr. Quire, coming out in public like this.

Rose looks very confused by this. She cannot, for the life of her, imagine Kanaya as a nun. This is almost very funny to her -- laughing out loud may seem rude, however, and so she refrains. Barely. She does give a very sage nod, however, and takes the card and pockets it.

"Thank you, sister. I'm afraid it has been at least thirteen years since my last confession, however. I haven't even been baptized."

[ He'd hoped pride would be his downfall. Or at least the need for something of a challenge. He didn't rip off his clothes, for once. (Why he'd thought that a good idea whenever the underarmor deployed, he'd never know.) But he did let metal cover his head and fingers, peeking out from under the second-hand, goodwill clothing he'd dug out.

And then came the gloves, and the boots. They were chrome, rather than red. He didn't pull them out, either, but they fastened into place anyway.

He had the plans in his head, it had been easy to find replacements, or improvise. ]

What do you think? Not too bad for being on a budget and on the run? I know it's missing a little flash.

Nepeta's gaze flicks away from Rose's to stare unseeingly at her tea as she's silent for a moment. This entire time her mind has been filled with hope for reuniting with her friends and stopping this horrible government and things flashing by in the present; she's never thought about what might happen if her faith was rewarded and someone from the past actually did return to her. Where does she go from here? Back to the park, pretending as if she's never crossed paths with Rose, back to skulking in the shadows and staying out of sight? It's a painful option, made even more hurtful by the huge probability that it's her only one.

The teacup clinks quietly as she sets it down into its saucer and looks back up, mannerisms hesitant. It's a horrible risk, but she can't let this go. Not fully. "Are you coming back here tomorrow, do you think?"

She's silent for a moment. She stirs her tea slightly and nods. "Probably. Sometimes I throw all caution to the wind and come here seven days in a row and drink every tea they have."

She is half joking.

She only ever drinks three types of tea.

Even if it's exaggeration (she's never really been able to tell with Rose) the thought still makes her laugh. What better way to fight the power than exhaust a cafe's store of hot leaf juice?

"That sounds like something you might need a purrtner to pull off effectively."

"Would you like to join me?"

It's dangerous, having Nepeta so out in the open. Especially in such a confined space. Rose is throwing caution to the wind here.

Open Post 002

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I THOUGHT I TAGGED THIS

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