Open Post 002

[2020mod]

• Step one: start a thread in this post!
• Step two: specify who the thread is for (or open) in this post!
• Step three: make people reply to this post!
• AND THAT'S THE WAY YOU DO IT.


And don't forget, there's still the ooc discussion post! And nothing needs to be contained to this post! Create new logs to your heart's content! This AU is yours, so have at it!


musebox • rules • character list

Comments

o p e n

[waiting]

[ It's easy for a man like Rick Bradbury to disappear. Out of the uniform, when he isn't taking up his post by his boss's side, he's just another footnote in the short, ugly history of the ImPort crackdown and registration. Just another body.

He isn't dead, though he sometimes wishes he was.

After years away, Bradbury's finally come home, or as close to home as he's ever had here. He's older, skin tanned and ruddy, hair left to grow long and coarse from exposure to sun and salt-spray. He's leaner, and he walks stooped, like a man who's been beaten down (or, more likely, someone just trying to disappear in on himself). He still favors worn denim and black shirts like he did on the rare days he was off-duty, but he doesn't count on anyone remembering what he looks like now. Some days, he can barely even recognize himself in the mirror.

With his ship docked, he's looking for a convenient place to stay, or at least that's what he tells himself. Instead of taking him to a hotel, though, his feet betray him, leading him down alleyways and streets he once knew like the back of his own hand.

How can a few years away change so much? ]

[ ooc: for reference/convenience, OOC plotting post is right here. ]

open;

[confidentially]

The last several years had given Jessica a newfound appreciation for having a normal life. Not that taking off her clothes for money was exactly normal, but it did afford her the ability to care for her daughter and grant her a comfortable, if somewhat modest lifestyle. Jaime never wanted for anything, and Jessica never put herself at serious risk in order to provide. And that was what mattered most.

Jaime had saved her mother in a way. Temptation was everywhere in the Miami heat. It would have been so easy to fall under the spell of a man or a drug or money. But Jessica was under her daughter's spell entirely. It was a position she'd never ever thought she'd find herself in, loving another human being so completely that she'd do absolutely anything for her, even spend her nights in a seedy strip club, bilking idiots out of their money. It was a scary feeling, too. Jessica felt weak sometimes, helpless when she thought about her daughter. For someone who was always sure of herself, the concept was foreign and uncomfortable. She liked knowing the answers and being able to predict the future. But so far nothing about motherhood was predictable at all.

Of course, that was before Laura arrived to take them out of South Florida and onto a new adventure. Five months on the road with a mutant assassin for hire and a five year old certainly put things into perspective, and when Laura's work brought her back to the City, Jessica decided it was high time she put down some roots in the place where it all began. An apartment in Brooklyn was obtained and Jaime was enrolled in the neighborhood public school. Laura came and went on her missions, leaving enough cash that Jessica wouldn't need to work to maintain their lifestyle-- especially not in a topless bar.

Sure, somedays she was worried about her cover being blown. But the City was as big and bustling as it ever was, and she hadn't spotted a single familiar face in the two months she'd been back. It had been six years, after all. What were to odds of her running into anyone who would recognize her.

( open )

[abyssale]

i. DAY TO DAY

[ Sometimes M'gann forgets what it's like to be in her own skin. She flexes the fingers of her hand and doesn't see anything Martian in her flesh. Nothing of the White Martian, not even the green skin she had come to wear on Earth. M'gann was far too paranoid to to slip out of cover. Even at base where she should feel most safe people rarely see in her own skin. M'gann has taken every precaution not to be discovered.

Not going by Megan or M'gann is another safeguard. Those names were thrown out a long time ago. She never recycles and old name or an appearance she's already abandon. When she takes on a new identity the old one might as well be dead. She goes by Suzie currently. It's the only name she'll answer to.

She's out getting groceries right now. Carrying two bags on her arms as she slips out of the store and keeps her head down. She looks and acts human but she doesn't want to give anyone cause to look twice at her in the City. She walks down the familiar neighborhood (not a very good neighborhood but it helps her keep a low profile) and is careful of the cracks in the cement, not paying attention to anyone around her as she walks. ]

ii. BASE

[ M'gann does what she can to slip into base. Base is in a worse neighborhood than she lives in, a place people don't usually want to go. She changes her clothes to something dark and with a hood and pulls it over her head as she finds the familiar apartment complex. She buzzs in, like she lives in the place, then slips into a door in the back for maintenance only with a password she changes almost daily.

She makes her way through the dark corridors lined with pipes as she descends into what used to be the basement. The walls are lined with lead and she takes every precaution to not be caught. She's moved the base, once or twice, but this one has been around for a little while. Which makes her edgy. Maybe it's time to move again...

No one knows they're their, though. A few subtle mind pushes and the complex owner forgets what that door in back is really for. It's for workers who know what they're doing, after all, not for lazy supervisors.

Finally M'gann reaches the base. She pulls her hood and and goes to the computer terminal to check on what news is floating around. ]

( ooc: plotting for reference. you can still comment there/jump in on this rebel group too. )

open!

[futureleader]

Somedays he's a well known terrorist who bothers the government with explosions and intricate plans of freeing political prisoners. Other days, he's going undercover and even talking amongst the same government officials he plans on assassinating. Regardless, Quentin leads a busy adult life between balancing these two identities and assisting his long term girlfriend, M'gann, in leading the undercover organization. Telepathy made it easy to balance between the two extremes of his life.

But he was well known. As a terrorist he was known as Quentin Quire. His face was familiar, and his name was particular. The government tried keeping his activities under the table. But news media was hard to silence when everyone was reporting about the jail break or the prison explosion that happened just a mile away. He was definitely no friend of the government, and was wanted alive for acts of terrorism. Alive, not dead, for questioning and to make him an example out of the terrorist group to quell disturbances.

In his undercover missions, he wasn't known. For obvious reasons. But he usually took up a telepathic disguise. Changing or altering the minds of others just slightly, to earn their trust and their future plans so that his group couple plan accordingly either way. Either by moving their base camp or by saving prisoners in the nic of time.

Quentin had changed. No, not because he finally had a girlfriend at long last but, he had changed from his childish boy ways into a mature young man. Easily, he had grown taller and fit into his body better. No longer was he the lanky awkward teen, but instead a young adult who was more in touch with his body. Mentally however... It was hard to tell these changes, especially if you were seeing him being reported on TV for acts of terrorism with action shots of a tall man with pink hair blowing up buildings or freeing a bunch of Import prisoners. It was hard to tell, from a far point. And even harder to tell if you didn't have close contact with him.

But he had changed. He had become more mature, more open minded about things. Less abrasive and headstrong about the issues at hand. If only you had the chance to catch up on each other's lives. If only...

You have three scenarios. Pick one! (If you would like an option more unique to you, just say so and I'll write a new one! :) )

A) Running into disguised!Quentin on the street.
A young man wanders the street. From a glimpse, he seems nothing out of the ordinary. He has a full-head of soft brunette hair that curls at it's tips. His eyes stare upward into the crowds of people, like he's searching for something. The young man's clothes are clean, designer clothes of the most popular fashionable taste. He's just a plain John Smith from off the streets. But when he catches your eyes, something seems amiss about him. Something that you can't quite put your finger on. It's like something is compelling you to talk to him. Or maybe it's just that he seems so shady in the way he wathes the crowd. Whoever he is, he turns and starts walking away.

Do you follow him?

B) Quentin at the undercover base!
There's a sigh of relief as soon as Quentin is in the safety of the base camp. His disguises, if any, vanish in a aura of pink energy. He wasn't worried, nor is he tired. He's just happy to be back at the camp where his friends are. Happy to be home. He grabs his water bottle off his bag, and tosses his bag against the wall before wandering over to the corner of the camp.

Do you follow him? Or do you call out to him?

C)Undercover!Quentin in the government!
Ask, and I'll type up a scenario. Or I'll respond to your government scenario! :)

Bonus Scenario! You don't pick any of these scenarios and instead, prefer 2020 Quentin to be a brain in a jar! You horrible monster.

OPEN LIKE A MOFO

[amoray]

Saturday night:

Interrogation one goes smoothly enough — political prisoner, native. Twentysomething and bold, just like Eridan. They sit across from one another at the kind of table Eridan imagines they do autopsies on, and the sea dweller asks the usual questions — what's your name, what are your friends planning? What do you think you're accomplishing here? A few minutes of sloppy, disinterested manipulation through his powers, and he gets what he — well, what they want. Eridan doesn't really care either way. They drag that twentysomething out, and Eridan follows suit for a smoke.

There's no real challenge in it all, honestly. Everyone with even a shred of fortitude to fight his hope powers is either in hiding or dead. It's like shooting wigglers in a barrel. Five, ten minutes after they've already seated the next one (he likes to give them time to sweat in that cold grey concrete room, blood and puke and piss and god knows what else from its earlier occupants still visible on some parts of the walls and floor), Eridan steps back in without bothering to snub his smoke. They hate that.

"So," he begins from the doorway, more interested in examining the cherry of his cigarette than this unfortunate slob, "what're you in for?"

Sunday morning:

Work. The legal one. Roman Fairchild, starvin artist extraordinaire, toils his youth away at a local family run cafe. It isn't a bad job, and the people who come to hear him speak aren't bad people — just kind of stupid, easily suckered in by charismatic, pretty faces who know how to phrase things to incite emotional reactions. Roman isn't afraid to speak openly against the government's treatment of ImPorts, nods sagely when the college kids express their novel opinions on the matter to him and encourages them to do something about it. It doesn't hurt that everything looks and smells and tastes better when he's around. It feels like the sun is just about to come out from behind the clouds, when he's around. It all feels righter, somehow, when he's around. Everyone loves Roman.

"Roman" loathes all of them. He used to, anyway. Now he just kind of pities them.

Five years of this, of the shilling and the lying and the acting, and Eridan is tired. Eridan is bored. Eridan is mostly alone. And, worst of all, Eridan is doubtful. Because he's been thinking lately, on whether or not the government had been the unkillable godbeing he'd likened it to at stupid, brash fifteen. Or whether or not he's made it that way. He's been thinking too hard about the promises he makes and the things he tells people, and — horrifyingly enough — he's realized he's come to believe them too. Because that thing Nietzsche said about staring into the void? He thinks maybe it works that way for the vvoid, too.

He also thinks the woman in the business suit who always sits in the seat by the backmost window works for the same people he works for. The people who, coincidentally, aren't happy with his vague, skimpy reports and his decided lack of either enthusiasm or interest in his work. The cause on both his and their minds: thoughtcrime. He estimates got six months tops before they finally, finally throw him to the wolves — or just the one, namely that dick Osborn. Guy's had his number for years.

It's kind of like poetic justice, if he thinks about it. Eridan doesn't mind too much, passing the woman her coffee, sharing a smile with her that's almost, almost genuine enough to pass. Six months is more than enough to do some real damage and piss some people off. He's game.

"Can I get you somethin'?" he asks the new occupant to the table at his left. He's expecting the usual triple mochaccino on ice, since that's what all his usuals order, so much so that he's already writing it down.

Sunday afternoon:

Eridan doesn't actually like bars, but he likes drinking alone in his crummy apartment even less. There's just something about bars that rubs him the wrong way, and he's never been able to put his finger on it exactly; is it the social element, or the drunk people, or is it just being reminded that other people can get schnockered without having to worry about slipping into terrifying alien form or drooling government secrets?

Probably that last one. Actually, no, it's probably a combination of that and the second one ever since that chick threw up in his hoodie last year.

This time around isn't all that bad — nobody says anything about his cosmopolitans (not even after he's thrown back about fifteen of them) and he even gets involved in a friendly game of pool, until a biker says something cheeky about the cosmos, and Eridan cheekily suggests the man skullfuck himself with the fat end of this pool cue pal. Before he knows it, he's getting shuffled into the parking lot for a brawl, and while he knows he's got no real chance of losing this one purely by who could kill who quicker, he's also a slightly tipsy ImPort in an ImPort-hating city, weaponless, working for a governing system that's probably looking for any reason to give him the Oceania treatment, and cornered in a parking lot by three burly bikers who want to beat the shit out of him.

"Karma's a bitch," he mutters, taking off his designer nonprescription glasses and tucking them in his pocket.

[prose and brackets are both aces!]

B.

[abyssale]

[ How many times has she told him- them all- to pick up after themselves. Of course, Quentin tosses his bag against the wall and lets it fall wherever. Without even really focusing, M'gann picks the bag up and sets it where it belongs with the others as she gets up from the computer desk now.

She follows him over to his corner, smiling at his back. ]

I take it work went well today. [ It felt so much more natural than talking out loud. ]

so open

[motherofnemesis]

a. the resistance fighter.

She's traveled far and wide over the past decade, through most of the states and occasionally out into the world beyond, up and down and once she took a vacation and lost herself somewhere in Southeast Asia for almost four months, out of all contact. That had been after her first brief stint with capture. She'd needed the space.

But The City always calls her back again (and that's how she thinks of it in her head, always - The City, all capitals and stark sternness, architect of her character as it shaped her over the years, dark alleys and bright skyscrapers and all the lies she's ever told in it). She thinks they all come back, in the end, even the ones who proclaim themselves safe and well away. It's hard not to.

Mostly she comes here on business, these days. It's too dangerous to wander back for no reason. It's even more dangerous to stay here, as she's done for a fair part of the past six months, but there were things that had to be done, that still have to be done. Most of her time is spent working, hidden away in either her own base or with someone else in theirs, a mix of trying to crack through security from afar and going out on missions to crack through it in person. Right now information is what's needed, and she'll find it if she can.

Some of those bases aren't particularly easy to get into, but her own - Max remains as easily accessible as she can to other resistance fighters, trying to help maintain connections. It puts her more at risk for discovery, but someone has to be easy to find for those who don't know how to find the others yet. And if you start looking for the revolutionary who goes by Nyx, she'll find you.

b. and the undefined.

There's other places she can be found. Sometimes at night, she goes out and does a little vigilante work. No costume, nothing that can be traced, just trying to repay a little of everything else she's done over the years. A few good deeds don't wash out the blood, but they make it easier to bear. She doesn't talk to people about that. It's better if they think she never has doubts, never wavers, never believes less than wholeheartedly that they are doing the right thing, using the right methods. Doubt is easier to communicate than belief. She won't let herself weaken anything.

There are groceries that need to be gotten, trips out of The City that have to be taken. Life can't happen entirely in closed dark places with passwords and locked doors, however safer that feels. People must be met.

Time marches on. Life keeps moving. She just wishes she didn't feel like she was being left so behind.

[ plotting comment for convenience. open to anything! also you are totally welcome to reply in either prose or brackets i'll match whichever. ]

.

[futureleader]

[He turns, at the sound of her voice inside his mind, and smiles.]

I've got the maps we wanted, [He pauses, pulling them up from the recesses of his mind to let M'gann see them as well. It was much safer to record details and paperwork into his mind. No paper trail to leave behind, and nothing would be a miss to give any doubt of suspicion to his employers. He sighs audibly, scratching the back of his head where his faux-hawk ends.]

I still don't like working behind the desk for them, even if it's to get closer to their information, M'gann.

[motherofnemesis]

[ It's been years since she saw Bradbury. But it's hard to forget certain faces, and events since then may have been horrific but the arena - she thinks that will stay in her memory forever. There are things you don't forget, and people who shared that tend to be pretty clear in your memory, especially when it's as good as hers is.

So when she sees him while she's walking to the grocery store her stride hesitates, awkward and ungainly for a moment as she processes it and double checks, makes sure that she's not imagining it. But no, it's him, and she doesn't let herself miss people it, she can't afford it, but with him here it's harder to ignore that she has missed him. She has no idea if he'll still recognize her - the pink hair is gone, a dead giveaway she couldn't afford to keep, and a decade has taken her from young and bright and idealistic to almost thirty and scarred and tired.

Regardless, she makes her decision in almost a split moment, a public image smile splitting across her face as she heads towards him with purpose. ] I didn't know you were back in town. How are you? [ A level to her voice carefully calculated to neither draw too much attention by loudness or by being too quiet and secretive. Just another pair of friends running into each other by accident on a cold winter morning. ]

SATURDAY

[futureleader]

[Eridan startles him, from his aimless daydreaming. But it doesn't take long for the customer to recover. He turns, looking up at the barista through his aviator sunglasses. The pink tint of the shades reflecting Eridan's face. He doesn't speak, not at first anyways, but instead takes the time to adjust the hood of his designer jacket. Hiding his face in a suspicious sort of way. And responds in a way that suggests he knows what Eridan is writing down.]

No. [He pauses to correct himself.] I mean, yes. I'll take a caramel on ice. Lots of sugar. And I'll take two vanilla bean teas on the go. One with sugar, one without.

option a, being as vague as possible yeah

[bangbang]

The arrangements are always, always made far in advance. These sorts of things always take a lot of planning, which was something Rikku had learned over the years. It had been a difficult lesson to pick up, but a few scars and near-death experiences had let her learn it deep down.

She's got Chavvi slung on her back; the girl's still just a baby, hardly over a year, and as much as she trusts Santo, she isn't yet comfortable leaving her baby girl alone. There had been many assurances, many arguments about it, but in the end, Rikku had won. And so here she stands on this crisp spring City evening with her firstborn on her back, waiting for one of her best friends.

She just hopes the plans are all still in place. She's done her part, and now it's up to Max to see her side through.

open.

[niveous]

the airport

[Planes are not even close to her favorite mode of transportation. The risk is usually too high, the chance of being recognized too great. Trains are much preferred. They remind her of home, and the slow and easy pace of them gives her time to relax. And she isn't forced to interact with anyone except when she ventures to leave her cabin. On a plane, there are no individual cabins, just rows of nosy people who don't get the hint that you can't (and, frankly, don't want to) talk.

But trains can't go across an ocean. And so a plane it is, for this trip back to the City. At least leaving from Europe she can simply pretend she doesn't speak any of the dozens of languages being tittered around her.]

the city

[It's been about a year since she's been in the City. Coming back isn't easy. There are so many arrangements to be made, so much information to pass on. Jaime's pseudo-network helps with that, but caution is still something deeply ingrained in her mind.

She's dressed darkly, all the easier to not stick out. Her carriage helps, she thinks. If the harsh angles of her haircut and the slight incline of her chin make people think she can't be bothered to talk, then there will be fewer questions. A few euros on her person at all times to keep up the illusion that she hadn't grown up in this place. An act, but one that might keep her safe.

It's easy enough to remain low-key in a hotel, anyway. Paid in cash, always cash. No text messages, no phone calls (useless anyway), just casual jaunts about the City, innocently stepping into long-ago frequented cafes or delis, a peek inside an old church, a slow meander through the MAC. If she's seen, it'll be by someone she knows. She hopes, anyway. But it is nearly impossible to peruse the entire city in just a few days.]

Open

[adventureboner]

((One))
((The bar on a friday night? Hell YES!!! In his years, Jake has taken a great liking to these sort of places, too, usually meandering around the facility, talking up any chap who'll give him a word. He's become a little better about socializing with people than he was as a teen, but he's still a big conceded, reflecting the conversation on himself nearly ALWAYS. He's just... a lot better at letting the other person reflect too.

So in whatever case, he'll swing up, and I don'tknow know... how about slide up next to you in the bar. He orders a fruity, blue colored drink, and with the money under his finger, looks to his side at (wanna guess?) you.))

Geez, this bar's really gone up in clamour in the last few years, huh? Heh...

((Two))
((Jake is bombarded by the paparazzi as he comes out of his car, smiling his toothy grin. The questions are embarrassing to say the least "how do you plan to come back from the Great Flub of 2017?" He looks embarrassed, but manages to slip passed into his hotel. This has been happening at least daily since his arrival in the City, so anyone might be able to stalk him out in the lobby any of these days. Thank GOD for max security celebrity hotels.))

((Three))
((It's after the show, and Jake is doing a meet and greet. He had his adviser set up a lot of this, telling him all he wanted to do was let the public find him. It was an odd request, sure, but Jake new why he came back. He was a celebrity again to try and find his old friends, a decision he'd made in Europe. He had no idea where any of them where, and he hoped they would have taken the chance to find him.))

Oh yeah, you betcha!! ((he exclaims to one excited fan.)) If you're talking GREAT flicks, Dogma is just about top of the crop. Plus, who DOESN'T love Matt Damon, even if he's getting a bit on the old side nowadays. I'd bet my last dime that his next film will really knock off Time's on it's heiny, hehe.

[adventureboner]

((Jake's flight in from Turkey arrived about twenty minutes prior to his coming into the new terminal. A little later than the recommended arrival time, he set his few bags down beside a chair; he sat right across from Nill, but the chairs lined up in a T formation, so he had a nice view of the people all lined up in the row in front of him. One caught his eyes, and he sort of smiled to himself a moment, remembering the sweet mute girl from his younger years. Ah, the younger years!!!! (Jake, you're only 22; you're not THAT old yet!!!) Of course, he was so preoccupied with daydreaming, as he tried to take a drink of his Tomato Juice, ended up spilling it all over himself.))

Oh! Frigging balderdash!! ((A moment, he does a quick clean up, but remembering this stuff stains...

He stands up, drawing Nill's attention.)) Uh, pardon me, would you mind watching my stuff? Uh... Cook auf mine, uh... stuff?

oh right durr SUPER OPEN

[shipper]

one;

[it's late and this part of town isn't the best of neighborhoods - the sort of place where a mugging or two wouldn't seem too bizarre. perhaps that's why no one seems to react to the sudden commotion in a nearby alleyway, or even bat an eye as a desperate young man shoots out of it with an odd look of relief and lack of injuries for someone who's presumably just been robbed.

anyone curious who moves down the alleyway fast enough will stumble upon a young woman standing over the prone body of a government agent, claws still out and slick with his blood. the hoodie she wears does nothing to obscure the horns (has holes cut specifically for them, in fact) or her golden eyes and she turns to see who's caught her before she can make her getaway. this is quite obviously an import, and possibly a dangerous one at that]

two;

[an anti-import rally in the park seems to have devolved into frantic anarchy as several of the speakers begin screaming opinions contrary to those they'd been spewing mere moments ago, refusing to be calmed or taken off-stage by calmer heads. the eagle-eyed will notice that a woman in the back, face entirely obscured by a veil, doesn't seem to be perturbed by the sudden shift in the rally's tone. she watches the rest struggle to maintain order, something in the way she stands almost amused. how odd.]

three;

[WHATEVER YOU WANT TO DO seriously I'm up for anything go go go]



[ooc; plotting thread for easy access]

open!

[nitidus]

o1. book signing.

Rose is twenty-three years old with three successful, underground books under her belt. Her first, The Surreptitious Mr. Green is a best seller. She has signed more copies in the last hour than she has in all week. There are more people here than she expected, at least a dozen queued up and a few stragglers at the back hoping to catch her as she leaves later. There are questions about doing a reading; they would give anything to hear lines from Ms. Trate herself. Rose is enthusiastic about tentacles on the best of days, but she doubts she could ever meet the devotion of the people in this bar.

Penny Trate is a fitting pseudonym. Rose Lalonde hasn’t been Rose for a long time now.

Sometimes she misses it. She misses her friends. She misses class and homework. Her hands itch to fish into her purse for her phone; someone asks her about further books and all Rose can think about is texting Roxy with I think I would like take-out for dinner. She answers: “In the fall, perhaps.”
Her signature is a scrawl of PT with more loops than necessary. She chins a hand and smiles pleasantly. She tucks a long strand of faded lavender hair behind an ear and greets her next fan.

o2. café.

Rose writes out in the open. There is nothing better than hiding in plain sight after all. Her hair is pulled back into an abomination of a bun, and sitting just off her shoulders is a sweater that is far too big for her. She scribbles idly in her notepad, while sipping a cup of earl grey just as attentively (to add insult to injury, there’s milk in it too). There’s a news paper sprawled out in front of her that is getting most of her attention.

Perched on her nose are a pair of non-prescription glasses. She turns the page and scribbles down a few more words. This is hardly a literary masterpiece. It’s more of a nonsensical stream of ideas.
As someone approaches to clear away her two other cups, she offers a barely attentive smile.

She takes a long gulp of her tea and turns another page of her news paper.

[rose's ooc plotting too!]

2

[shipper]

Nepeta is rarely out this early - it's too dangerous, even for her. But there had been a rally that she just couldn't miss and now she's on her way back from it, veil firmly in place and keeping her face from giving her away. Her eyes flick behind it all over the scenery, drinking it in with the sort of eagerness only people who don't get out much possess. It's the only reason she stares for more than a few seconds at the occupants of the nearby cafe, but the double take she does is completely intentional - there's a woman there who looks too too familiar.

She slows as she draws level with the cafe, dropping down to her knee by Rose's table under the pretense of tying her shoe. Hands shielded by overlarge hoodie sleeves pull diligently but thoughtless at her laces as she subtly looks over the woman's face, the woman's table, making absolutely certain that it's not just wishful thinking.

"Purrl grey? Really?" she murmurs softly, eyes catching on the teabag sitting on the saucer. The comment is quiet enough that it can easily be brushed off by the woman if she's wrong, and meaningful enough to catch attention if Nepeta is still as good at recognizing faces as she used to be.

(/w\)!!!

[nitidus]

She isn't really paying attention to her surroundings, but she is paying attention enough that she notices Nepeta walk in. She notices enough when she crouches down. It's the pun that gets her. She had already glanced down once, but it's the Purrl that has her giving Nepeta a second glance. She raises an eyebrow. She puts her pen down and discreetly lowers her voice. "Do you not like Earl Grey?"

She needs a closer look to be sure.

It could be a coincidence, of course. This could be anyone with a liking for catpuns. It could be anyone at all. "Or perhaps it's the milk you don't like?"

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ'

[shipper]

"It's a waste of purrfectly good tea," she replies lightly, trying to keep the giddiness out of her voice. It's been so long since she's spoken with someone that she knows (or might know, a voice in her head cautions her) that dancing this close is agonizing. She finally looks up from her shoes to lock eyes with Rose, gambling on being right as she allows the other woman full access to admire her pretty golden eyes. "Especially since cats can't have much milk to begin with."

I can't do fancy stuff on my phone ;_;

[nitidus]

She glances around vaguely. It's mostly empty, the few patrons here tucked into corners. Rose gestures to the seat opposite her.

"They do regular tea, too. Why don't you join me?"

She is quick to fold her paper up. "I was just about to order another pot anyway."

that's a relief since it took my forever to find that one

[shipper]

"Well, if you're offering..."

The grin plastering her face goes unseen thanks to the veil, but her body language conveys some of it as she seats herself in the offered chair. Thank god she was right.

"It's been a while since I've had some, anyway."

ahaha ps I will tag tomorrow iyt is so late cries

[nitidus]

"What kind would you like?"

Rose is not sure how to feel right now. It's been a long time since she has seen anyone except Roxy. She is half-way excited and half-way nervous.

She shuts her notebook.

"I can drink almost anything."

haha aw sweet dreams

[shipper]

"Cameowmile, please."

She's not even sure what they're going to talk about - 'my that disguise looks fetching how's being on the run from the law treating you' doesn't seem to feel like the sort of thing appropriate for this setting. But it doesn't really matter, barely registers in Nepeta's mind for more than a moment. She finally found someone.

open:

[enigmaestro]

12:47 PM

The fallout burned nuclear in his skin, into his neurons. He struggled to breathe, when it happened, these flashbacks of steel pushed into his flesh or electrical shocks sizzling up his spine. Of that dark voice, ever calm and patient and cold, spinning words in his head. Edward Nygma leaned against the alleyway like a man against a crutch, palms scraping against brick as his memories swam and flooded his brain, trying so hard not to fall out.

"Just -- I just need, ah, just a moment," he said to the blurred passing people that shoulder him on their way. Six months: he understood what he was, this hybrid man puzzled into pieces. He understood what had happened to him, he knew he must always question his paranoia.

And double-question his own questions, to be sure. But his tongue dried on the doublespeak.

Six months broken between agonizing hours and swirled weeks he couldn't remember. The blackouts, he wasn't sure if those were even true now.

Nothing seemed true.

The air was so crisp against his tongue. Like the first sip of water after days in the iron box.

Had that been true?

His power, that was the cruelest irony. His captors had taught him to doubt even his own objective power, the one thing he logically knew he could trust.

But could he trust it? When they said it was wrong, how it lied to him?

"I just need--"

3:12 PM

After combustion, there is a release. Dynamism to heat. Hot air rises proving less dense than colder air and more prone to pressure exerted upwards. After Eddie succumbed to his knees, to his own screams, to a voice that traumatized without ever speaking again -- after that, he would recalculate. He would crawl back up from the spilled alleyway trashcans and the ignored filth of the street, adjust his tie, and he'd think. He would hit his worn soles on the pavement and focus and brainstorm his fresh tactics for the Resistance. He knew so much, after all, so much about the Establishment. He could -- would help, his mind even swallowed by shadows was still sharper. Better.

Edward turned left, heading to the one rendezvous point still accessible to him: an underground bunker beneath a copyright law firm. He needed to see someone, right now.

"Immediately."

The days when he refused to drown. Water didn't always behave like air, and he needed to stay above. He needed it.

OPEN

[retropolis]

In one sense, a lot has changed. In another, almost nothing. The public and the government growing a distaste for masked vigilantes was something that had begun to unfold even back in Nelson's time, although he had never seen the fully actualized aftermath. Now here he saw it again, over half a century later and much more hostile. Even a decade ago he was too old and tired to keep fighting for a future that even in the sixties had seemed unlikely and now seemed completely impossible.

He kept his house -- large enough, his book series and the subsequent merchandizing left him quite well-off while his pen name left him still to a life of peace -- in good condition and offered a spare room "for rent" to whomever might need a place to stay; he couldn't offer much more to any cause (nor, really, did he want to), but that alone soothed any guilt he might have felt for giving up on a world that still needed -- but refused -- the help of heroes. The world didn't want to be saved. Each year Nelson debated with himself if he still wanted to try. Each day, almost, Nelson debated further himself if he even wanted to keep trying to save himself.

The name 'Captain Metropolis' meant nothing here; without much history or reputation it was only the quiet memory of a slightly paunchy sixty-one year old man whose blonde hair has begun to go grey at the temples. It meant plenty to Nelson still, of course; nostalgia was one of the few steady comforts to hang his hat on, always easy to find at the bottom of the many bottles he'd been emptying in recent years. Not that he was a sloppy drunk -- he kept a well-stocked cabinet and mini-bar that he offered to guests and helped himself to throughout the day, usually only leaving his house after he'd had one or two. It was too chaotic outside without something to soothe the nerves and quiet his cycling thoughts. The company lending out a room provided didn't go unappreciated. Social as he was, Nelson somehow always found himself on his own. Lately it was just easier to keep indoors with the curtains drawn.

( Location-wise, at his place or around the City is fine; I'm pretty flexible! )