∞ [ action post ]

[fatespoken]

✏ LOGGING: This is your thread for logging, whether spontaneous or plot-related, silly or serious. His normal haunts include shifts at the Blue Light, various city bars, cafes, random encounters, etc. Prose preferred, [] are fine too.

✉ TO SET UP: Just drop me a line at aeloriax[at]gmail.com or Y!M/AIM (listed in the post below) to give me a

Comments

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

The weak glow of light from the off-centered ceiling lamp allows the shadows to tuck the booth into a dark corner. They eclipse the table in shades, catching in the rise and hollows of Amory's face, draped severely against the depressions under his eyes. Single movements of the hour hand had tread their marks, but this was not anything unusual-- insomnia wasn't the right word for it, he would say. Others would claim it so, but Amory would purport volition. It was his decision to stay up with the midnight hours, sitting out the tapping of thoughts until they quieted away. Rumination with frayed edges was born nightly, as was often the case with the human psyche, carrying their worries with loud voices-- recent events like the fear of leaving or the heavy weight of particular curses, but Amory celebrated the occasion, made a ritual of it with a toast and ten more. He could have slept, he should have slept, but there was better escape with practiced indifference and a touch of alcohol. A touch, says the seventh shot of Bacardi 151 in his

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[oshutup]

No one should still be at The Blue Light, and Peter pauses in the back hall, his own quiet-enough footfalls stilling to silence as he listens to the recognizable clink of a glass, the kind that says a bottom edge has just been knocked absently against a tabletop or counter in being drawn back up for another usage. He has one guess to make as to the not-so-mysterious personage present at this too-late hour, and his guess is more a certainty even before he sees the reputedly and proven surly bartender taking what could be his first shot but probably is not. Blue eyes do not quite hood; nor do they narrow, but the scrutiny makes itself known in other ways, not thick like a weight and not thin like a twig bound to snap at a returning look, much closer to something tempered in between--a blade's finer edge

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

But there aren't words for the uninvited guest, the light shuffling of cloth greeting the blond as Amory jumbles through his right pocket for some object of interest. A click, a snap- a flare sparks the cigarette now set thinly between his lips, head angled upward up so that the white smoke ascends in loose spirals toward the ceiling, dark light choking out the gauze cloud as it acquiesces to the negative. Words unspoken didn't account for his expression, though vague enough as it was with irises hanging toward the bottom of his sclera-- observing the blond, watching him, perhaps forming proper words of retort and vitriol as the intruder deserved. Though whether such acerbic remarks would leave any impression on the stoic king had to be questioned; perhaps he would just shrug it off, counter his words with the cold hardness that is nonchalance. Though Amory might well be copying the blond's demeanor, or at least three quarters transposing it, with back also leaning against the seat, expression muted with indescribable contours. There

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[oshutup]

He half snorts at the other man's words when they escape him at last. It is only half a snort because it gets cut off by a mild noise of disapproval at the stewing rebellion in the form of dilapidated ash and a smoothly rattling attitude. Truly, Peter has no special objection to people and their vices because what a man does with his own time and his own money are, as can be concluded, also his own business. That fine print gets dense down the way of course, when said man brings it into the public domain, and The Blue Light is quite public for all that it harbors something of a homey undertone people flock to it for, a casual understanding between friends as if each patron is the first friend and the bar itself is the second and everyone around them the so on and so forths

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

[worksmart]

It's not a regular spot but that might be why Chase has picked the Coliseum as his first stop of the night, not sure when plans for the evening became a bar crawl but knowing that here at least there won't be any regulars asking the occasion, or waitresses suggesting that maybe he's had enough without knowing about the constant game of chicken currently playing itself out between his impulse and common sense. It's enough to drive anyone to drink, and Chase has chosen tequila for his purposes simply because he never usually would.

I've never gone cliff-diving. At night, in winter, without checking the water depth first.To the best of his knowledge he's never had a death wish, either, but today is proving a first for everything. The first shot sours in his mouth and he finds himself eyeing the source, dark amber among a host of cocktail brights, and twisting his hand in a lazy curve to call the bartender toward him. "I've never drunk down to the worm before. Can I get the bottle

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

[fatespoken]

Of all things. Of all things

No.

But of course, the uninvited guest of the night would have to be Robert Chase. A rehash of the catalyst to this week's disaster. Had a bit too much to drink, collided into Peter and thus proceeded to let the lead drop and bludgeon the memories out of him with the slip of a tongue. Technically, the slip of tongue and some preternatural aid, but both were essentially mistakes.

A mistake he wouldn't risk making with Chase tonight.

He throws back the remaining swallow of Blue Moon, and then takes the decisive route to abstain from any sort of liquor tonight. Coke or water would do if he needed something. Besides, with a degree of sobriety on his side, perhaps he would manage to argue away the nuisance positioned in front of him. Or if that didn't do the trick, maybe a nice fist would wipe that damn grin off the Australian's face.

Resist, Amory. Resist.

"No. Not tonight, Chase. Get out," he sighs, a tired lean to his voice as he establishes the comment as an order with a harsh slam of bottle bottom

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

[worksmart]

Of course Chase doesn't know the source of Amory's bile on this occasion, just that he never seems to need much of an excuse and that, as a routine, it's old. The smile does slip from his face, as hoped, in favour of a grimace as he shakes his head and protests, "No, no, we've done this before. Tonight why don't we try having the conversation first. Then you can tell me to piss off."

Not that he's ever taken orders from sullen boyband rejects (there's a thought-- no), but if the distraction works for a little while Chase can be gracious enough in departure. Sometimes talking to Amory turns out to be unexpectedly worth the fight with a brick wall it usually requires. Tonight needs to be a quicker fix than that, before his mind wanders in search of the next possibility, which a quick glance at the other patrons suggests could be a significantly worse prospect than snoring through some stock-in-trade teenage angst.

I've never started a barfight with a guy twice my size. Is that a hook?He looks back at Amory before he can look too long

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

[fatespoken]

His unexpected eagerness for interaction has Amory wondering just how many shots, glasses, or bottles have numbered Chase's night already. What an odd question for him to be asking, as if he could ever be considered a voice of temperance. Certainly, he could be at least be a voice of reason, since the words he's attempting to drill into the other's head, he decides, are very reasonable. Leave the gloom alone, Chase. Leave the sullen one to his shuffling of bottles and silent wallowing. Leave him to his, what is that word, could it possibly be, why yes it is- conscience.

Go and busy yourself in a barfight with a guy twice your size, Chase. Do it.

Or that's what Amory would say if he could read his mind, which sadly, is not found in his stock of peculiarities. Though, he probably wouldn't actually suggest something that hazardous if he knew that Chase was attached to the strings of a curse. Perhaps something involving dresses and clowns and a funny dance... but that's all besides the point. The point is that the last thing Amory needs

spill it out on the ragged floor / a thousand different versions of yourself

[worksmart]

[Sunday night, after midnight, and with the chains broken between Claire and Eden Chase has decided it's safe to take his leave and deal with the thing that's been burning a hole in his pocket since the afternoon. He hadn't meant to take the picture from the hospital; was only holding on to it to ask the last few nurses whose shifts he hadn't caught if they'd seen the face -- once seen, he suspected they'd have remembered it. Then curses, distractions, and he'd made off with what should have been kept in a confidential file, even one named Jane Doe.

And then Eden solved the puzzle without knowing it. The one person he hadn't been going to ask. Lucky he didn't, the girl doesn't need another entry on her list of reasons to shoot Amory. Because that's who Chase is waiting for now, arms folded in the corridor outside the younger man's apartment, assuming he'll have vacated whichever couch he was catnapping on in short measure and be making his way home.

It could wait 'til morning, but Chase knows he wouldn't sleep.]

spill it out on the ragged floor / a thousand different versions of yourself

[fatespoken]

[ Transitioning from man to cat and cat to man, all while in the clutches of Frankie, has left Amory in a piss poor mood. A poor mood compounded atop an already sour demeanor means dealing with him will be akin to stepping on a patch of pins. It's only darkened in shades as he's trudged home-- another day at work missed, another day demeaned, another day acting puppet to the deities. One would feel sorry for the drunken man who had slammed into him on the walk back.

Yet, as he steps out of the elevator, that anger fades into observation, shoulders tightening ramrod straight. He surveys the hallway, seeming to ignore the only tangible figure there. Not even a pause for the Doctor, though surely Amory has noticed him, as he's currently making a straight, brisk line to catch him at the door. Even if he's as sloppy as Eden is precise, he wouldn't miss that presence. ]

spill it out on the ragged floor / a thousand different versions of yourself

[worksmart]

[Oh well, Chase's shoes have thick soles, and Amory can't needle him a great deal more than holding onto this photograph with no way of knowing the truth of it. There's no need for acknowledgement, either. He straightens too as the elevator doors open and crosses the hall with Amory's approach until there's no way the man can enter his own apartment without the doctor getting at least a foot in the door.

This isn't a silent intrusion, although Chase isn't entirely sure how to open a conversation like this and as so often in being the bearer of difficult news, starts with a cliche.]

Took your time. We need to talk.

[And are going to, if the steel in his tone is any implication.]

spill it out on the ragged floor / a thousand different versions of yourself

[fatespoken]

[ It's not that he ignores the doctor because he's decided to ignore him. At the moment, he's preoccupied, too preoccupied to fasten together his usual derision, and so Chase's inquiry is returned with unusual directness. He's close enough now to be at an arms length from Chase, form still as rigid as it was when he stepped off the elevator. Even facing him, Amory's attention is clearly divided if not wholly missing. His eyes stray briefly to glance at the side. ]

Quickly, then.

[ Telling him no would be futile anyways. The metal lies close to the surface, while the occasion of Chase actually physically and voluntarily coming to see him implying unavoidable conversation. ]

plenty of ways you can hurt a man and bring him to the ground - but I'm ready for you

[orangetoughguy]

[Freddy Newendyke's got various reasons for being out on his own tonight, some of them are pink. Actually all of them might be pink. Funny how that finds him heading towards The Blue Light for a drink, maybe just to sit somewhere and listen to the music. He has a cigarette between his lips, half smoked down.]

plenty of ways you can hurt a man and bring him to the ground - but I'm ready for you

[fatespoken]

[ Amory's gone out for a break and a smoke, walking out the back door and into the street. It's a quiet night tonight, without a single light dotting the street; save for Freddy Newendyke and his half-smoked cigarette. Out of his own pocket, Amory draws a fag, and shuffling for a lighter from his pocket. But he's hardly got the end lit when he comes into his teeth.

Amory's hardly aware when it happens-- hardly aware of himself at that point. It's all amorphous colors and streaks of emotion in chaotic tumbles, tearing across his mind, only to draw out a single, sure inclination.

He's hungry. Starving And there's not a single soul here, save for Freddy Newandyke. ]

plenty of ways you can hurt a man and bring him to the ground - but I'm ready for you

[orangetoughguy]

[ Don't sweat it, he doesn't even notice the way Amory here looks at him though he's struck by some familiarity. Haven't they met before? Maybe on the network? Something like that. He can tell the guy works at the establishment he's heading for, so does Claire. He knows Claire better. In the spirit of casual congeniality though he offers Amory a single upnod of his head. ]

plenty of ways you can hurt a man and bring him to the ground - but I'm ready for you

[fatespoken]

[ Amory fails to reciprocate his congeniality, for he's far too interested in the man himself. With a mind too erratic for conscious thought, too busy keeping up with itself to distinguish man from meat, he can't help but give in to instinct. Heat blossoms from Freddy's skin; a warm haze that radiates against his face and clings to his skin. A heat that lures him toward the shorter man.

Lure is too laconic a verb for the speed in which he pins Freddy against a wall. A hand against his shoulder, hard rock pinning him down with a knee to restrain his lower body, pressed between his stomach and his crotch. His face inches closer, fangs obscured by the dark. ]

just give fair warning any time you come around

[whitetwoguns]

[Patience is always and forever the greatest tool that any man of action can possess outside of brains. Larry fancies himself to be a person to wield both. He's got plenty of time, wading in it after work. Just in case patience fails him, he's got his silencer, his knuckleduster, a silver cross he bought on the street and special ingredient.

Mr. White knows who he is waiting for and were to linger. And he's not going home without trying. If he fails, well, let's not think about that. There's a very distinct message that's going to go out with this. Don't fuck with Mr. Orange. Don't fuck with people like that who will wait for days like that. That's bullshit.

His Chesterfield is about spent. And a glance to the clock tells him that it's pretty fucking early. Come on, Fucker. Where are you.]

just give fair warning any time you come around

[fatespoken]

[ Amory should take more precaution than he does, wandering the streets this time at night. It could be that kind of complacency that settles when you live in a place too long, and convince yourself that you're immune to its dangers.

The point is that Amory is walking home, cigarette perched between his lips, entirely unaware of the danger that lurks in this shadows. Within his visions, he may be privy to the lives and fates of victims, but he was rarely the victim. The City had tested him once with Frankie.

Circumstances would soon prove him wrong again. ]

just give fair warning any time you come around

[whitetwoguns]

[Target in sight. He keeps it quiet and cool, walking a distance behind. Chances are, being he's supernatural something something, he can detect someone around. Then again, it's a City full of people. No shit.

He follows a few streets, Larry doesn't want him to know wherever the hell he lives. Being in the area that's so familiar should be more than enough. The best time to strike he decides is while they're between streetlights. The victim, that's you Amory, will be able to see but not everything. In case he runs to the cops it could be too dark to get a full sketch. This is exactly what he's banking on.

Gun ready, he strikes. Two shots, no silencer. Hey, it's the City. This should not take long anyways.]

just give fair warning any time you come around

[fatespoken]

[ He's completely blind to White's presence, by virtue of the older man lacking any supernatural aspect. So when those two shots fire, it comes at a complete surprise. Amory's hardly the kind of man who can outrun bullets, and when he hears the double shots, the impact of the two bullets seem instantaneous.

And he screams like a motherfucker.

At first, he's not really feeling anything. It's panic. Shock dampens the impact, adrenaline kicked up with the ratchase in his heart, beating a hundred miles per hour. Pain's not alien to him, but each kind of pain's got a different name-a different bite. The pain from his blood comes like encroaching waves, building slowly and culminating in a sudden impact, then drawing back to repeat again. Getting shot twice in the legs would be different; it'd hurt more, since everything is felt once.

If he isn't screaming already, once the shock wears away, he'll surely be ripping his throat out. ]