capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 002

A little? [ He asked it with a wry twist to his voice, eyebrows lifting, but he holds his hands to the guy's shoulders, trying to keep him grounded in reality, just in case he decided that maybe looking like he was crazy was the last straw.

There were a lot of reasons to be upset with the world, to be discouraged with how things were.

He was of the school of keep on fighting, but he knew he was a rare breed. He fought because that's all he knew how to do, but he fought in his own way. This world had become more home to him than his world, and while, eventually, he would prefer to return home to do what needed to be done, he had this home to fix first. ]

Come on, pal. You look like you drank a few too many fifths, what's going on?

[ Nelson leaned his forehead against the man, shaking slightly and not caring in that moment how he came off to this stranger. He would rather, right now, lean against him than contemplate jumping off that bridge any further. He needed to be sober for that.

He shook his head, gripping the man's shoulder tightly. ]

Sometimes you get tired of constantly living with disappointment and heartbreak. The cost isn't worth what you're left with, because -- there's nothing. Everything and everyone I ever fought for--

[ Over. Dead. Or simply not here. It didn't really matter; the world was messed up enough that anyone could fill in the blanks if they had to. Some of them.

He shakes his head, moving back again. He awkwardly offers his hand, trying to get ahold of himself again. ]

... I shouldn't trouble you with my problems, I know you didn't-- sorry. I'm Nelson.

Adrian. [ He shakes it, feeling that slow curl of dread. Nelson. The City was a big, crowded place. Randomly meeting with an old employee was dangerous, but at the same time, he could feel it, deep that this was his former employee. It looked like him.

Well, a shell of who he'd been, at least. They'd all aged, of course. There was no immortality like there was in the comic books. They wouldn't live for generations, to grow up with their stories. They were normal fucking human beings.

With powers, maybe, but still normal human beings. ]

Adrian Maskin. [ He shook his hand, congenial, a smile in place. It was a politician's grip. Firm but not out to prove anything. ]

It's alright, you know. It's not all that bad, you know. It can't be that terrible. [ He knew it was. He understood Nelson, it was that bad. He understood it, but he couldn't let on that he knew. ]

[ Nelson owns Maskin's book, but at the moment the name rings no bells. He's not far enough along in it, nor does he pay close attention to all the books he buys anymore -- he has to spend the money he's still getting from his book series (since adapted for film, as well) on something. He's interested in the politics going on, but reading about them depresses him.

So the name doesn't cause a react, he simply shakes the man's briefly. He's relieved, more than anything, that if he had to be stopped it was by someone he doesn't know. He can't handle the judgement of friends, even when he's more at his best. When he's old, greying, slightly out of shape and drunk enough that he's waxing poetic to strangers about the state of the world and on dying is hardly that, though sadly it's not even his worst, either.

He just shakes his head. ]

It -- well, I-I suppose it's not important. [ He can't explain the real 'whys' without revealing several things about himself he shouldn't. Part of being an imPort these days does involve playing a role at times, even to those who haven't reinvented themselves utterly. ] In the grander sense. I don't know if you're familiar what it's like to look in the mirror and see someone that you hardly even recognize. I used to be someone, Mr. Maskin, I had friends, good looks, and a dream instead of an extra twenty pounds, an empty house and more money than I can spend from trashy novels I didn't even sign my real name to. This isn't living. After a point you're only wasting time until... well, the inevitable.

Oh yeah? [ He asked, honestly curious. The guy wrote books? When the fuck had he written some fucking books? He honestly looked a little surprised, probably too surprised, but he played it off with a gentle, knowing smile. ]

Hell, half of us have pen names these days. I'm an author as well. Who knows, maybe you'll end up like Mark Twain or George Orwell. [ He awkwardly clasped a hand over his shoulder, offering his support. ]

Believe me, I know what you mean. It's an unfortunate side-effect of getting old.

[ Again, he played it off. He really did know what he meant. Hell, he recognized all to well Nelson's situation. He could feel a reflection between how he was feeling, and what his life had become. He couldn't sympathize too much though.

He wasn't an import. ]

[ Nelson looks a little sheepish, biting his inner cheek. He'd never told anyone except Sally about his books -- it was embarrassing, honestly, and it had spiraled so quickly out of his own control -- but this man isn't an imPort; he doesn't know Nelson from anyone else on the street. Nelson doesn't imagine they'll see each other again after today. ]

I highly doubt that. It's a silly little crime series I wrote on -- uh -- on a whim, more than anything. I didn't expect them to sell the way they did... everyone thinks they're romance novels, of all things... but, I'm no writer. [ He's still bitter about the reception they got. It's a crime series, and it isn't smut. God! He sighs, gaze shifting downcast. It's easier than talking about his real problems. ] You don't really think about the reality of growing old when you've still got the future ahead of you. It seems like a goal. Full of promise and success.

[ He was almost surprised. He'd never known Nelson wrote a series of books. The surprise on his face, however, could've been anything from surprise that this guy was so bitter, to surprise that he was an author. Hell, who knew, maybe he'd read them.

Although that was unlikely. Mitchell didn't read for pleasure. He used to, but that'd been ages, an entire lifetime ago, actually. Before his powers.

How much had he given up, because of one night, beneath this bridge, an entire universe away? ]

That's the worst part about getting old, if you ask me. You start to realize that in the end, all the things you think you're going to do don't amount to much. Or at least, they don't, when you look at it with that kind of perspective. I'm sure you'e done plenty to be proud of.

[ "Not here, so much," is on Nelson's tongue before he catches himself, and simply shrugs mildly. He still has to be careful about what he gives away; he doesn't know if Maskin knows he's an imPort or not, but he won't volunteer the information. ]

They made it into a movie. Some people would consider not having to work a victory of some kind. You've probably even seen it. [ He still doesn't sound happy about it. ] I was a Marine -- I fought in the war, you know, and I'm still entirely obsolete as far as the world's concerned. You're young enough that you can still recover, should it turn on you.

And may it never. Still, here we are.

[ He takes a step away, wobbling slightly and leaning against the railing again. ]

It's more that all the things you did do didn't amount to much that still matters.

[ He laughed. ]

I'm pushing fifty, I don't think that's going to happen any more than it would for you. [ The burst of amusement, fake though it was, burst and then died, leaving them both in the somber silence once again. Nelson wasn't that much older than him, he didn't think. He'd fudge his age, but not by that much. He'd always looked young for his age, and he'd knocked it down a few years. ]

I think the impact you probably made is bigger than you're letting on.

We're all our own worst critics, you know?

[ He sighed, leaning against the railing, crossing his arms. ]

I bet you're less obsolete than you're letting on.

Sixty-one. [ Sort of. One hundred eight if he were to go by his actual birthdate. He smiles a little weakly, shaking his head, but sliding a little closer to Maskin. ] But you, um, you don't look it. At least your good looks haven't left you yet.

[ He looks down toward the water, his gaze a little unfocused. ]

I really don't think so. I've tried, you know. But there comes a point where you've tried everything you're able to and you have to evaluate where that's left you.

Figure out how much you have left to give? Figure out what you can do with it?

[ His smile wasn't bitter, or rather, he tried to keep the bitterness from his face. It was hard, and he really only barely managed to keep it any less than a mere touch of bitterness.

He knew that position well.

He'd almost given up, years ago. He'd honestly wanted to run, hide, and stay far removed from the world. The government's authorities couldn't hope to stand against him when their weapons couldn't shoot him, and well, he could disappear easily enough. But hiding did nothing for him, he couldn't sequester himself away. So he'd hidden in plain sight, started over again. ]

Don't you think, even if you have to start over again, I mean, if you had movies made of your books, you could do something, right?

There's nothing left, I'm telling you. I-I've been completely exhausted. The fire's died. I don't know if I have the strength to light it again.

[ He puts his hands over his face again, peering out between his fingers down at the water. ]

I never wanted movies! Those damn books mean nothing to me, I wanted to help people! A better -- a better -- [ He wobbles a little, and hangs his head. ] Maybe I should get home, I'm babbling... I'm so sorry, Mr. Maskin, I'm not sure what I'm saying anymore.

Yeah, yeah, here, let me help you get home. Which way?

[ Anything to keep the conversation from going in the direction he seemed to want to take it. Mitchell reached out, holding him by the shoulders, trying to pull him away from the bridge.

She'd seen enough tragedy, the bitch didn't need to see anymore, especially if he had anything to say about it. Of course, he had a personal score to settle with the bridge, or at least, to keep other people from going down around here anyway.

He'd prefer for her to stay. Then again, he was biased. ]

Come on, pal. Let's turn you in the right direction, huh?

[ Nelson resists a moment, gripping the railing tighter, before he lets go and allows Maskin to lead him from the bridge, shoulders slumped. He blinks a little quickly to clear his vision from fuzziness and tears, pointing eastward. ]

This way. I'll, um, over here... [ He stumbles forward a little, still pointing. ] Not too far, I took a cab.

Yeah, alright. You want to take a cab back, or just walk it off?

[ He asked the question low, guiding him back along the bridge, intention to leave that. ]

Although I'm thinking a cab might be a bad idea, if you want to keep your last meal down.

All right. We can walk. [ Nelson nods slowly, swallowing and leaning against Maskin for support. ] It's only about twenty minutes away. I think. I've never walked all the way to the bridge from home...

Then I guess we'll both figure out how to get from the Brooklyn Bridge to your place, huh?

[ There was a twist of old sarcasm he couldn't help but inflect, still offering his arm around Nelson's shoulder. It felt weird, odd to be the kind of person who would do this. Help an old friend, co-worker, and nobody knew who he was.

Like he was out on display, and that everyone already knew the secret, he was the only one who thought he was getting by anonymously. ]

[ Nelson laughs a little helplessly, nuzzling closer as he weaves his way forward. ]

I suppose we will. You're too kind, really, I can find my way on my own... if I must... you must have important things to get back to.

[ He looks up at Maskin, still blearily hanging on. ]

[ Maskin tried to tug him a little straighter, entirely too stiff and straight as he tried to lead him on. Come on, buddy, don't pull that again, or he'll have to call Nelson out on it. He didn't want to, at all.

It was uncomfortable. Then again, physical affection in general was something the author was entirely too uncomfortable with. ]

It's no trouble. I can't just leave you like this, you might get into trouble, and that's a burden I can't handle, you know? It's better to make sure you're home safe.

[ He's lonely and too drunk to be all that self-aware, Maskin, sorry. He does straighten up slightly, though, trying to just use Maskin's shoulder for support instead of hanging off him. ]

Trouble. [ He scoffs a little. ] I'm just a stranger to you, you aren't responsible for me, Mr. Maskin. [ Leaning more again. ] When we get back at least come inside for a drink. I'll fix something for you.

Oh no, it's-- It's absolutely no trouble, believe me. [ He was leaning again, but goddamn the poor guy was drunk. He felt kind of bad for him, in the way that a man could feel bad for a former coworker.

When had they all fallen apart so thoroughly. Even Nelson looked like a shell of who he'd been. ]

Look, I don't need any thanks. Think of this as my one good deed for the week.

Edited 2013-03-05 23:06 (UTC)

No, no, no. I insist. Please. [ He wobbles again, patting Maskin's shoulder. ] I'll fix you something, it's the least I can do; you only have to sit there and drink it. I've got plenty, it's completely fine.

Alright, alright. [ He patted his shoulder, reassuring. If it would mean that he'd be satisfied, he'd at least get a drink.

He could use one, at this point.

How many people in the City was he going to find that he knew? ]

Unless you puke on me, then all bets are off. [ He was joking, mostly.]

Just one, it'll take no time at all. It's just good hospitality. I can't let you go without--

[ He shakes his head. It's pretty easy to fall back into social adequacy, even while drunk, now that he's had some time to let his crisis unfurl. He'll take pleasantries where he can get them.

He pats Maskin's chest with his other hand, laughing slightly. ]

Don't you worry, I've got a stronger stomach than all that. [ He grasps a little at his tie as he stumbles again. ] So, what kind of writing do you do? Fiction?

Oh no, nonfiction, actually. Dry, policy shit that nobody really wants to read.

[ He waved a hand. No need for the guy to realize he was a bestseller, or anything. At least not right now, not while he was drunk and stumbling. The poor guy needed a good cup of coffee, some asprin, and something to eat. ]

Tell me about your books? I bet they're better than the adoring public knows. Sometimes the subtext is hard to pick up on.

[ Christ knows his was littered with it that nobody ever picked up on. ]

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