riverviewlogs | catch-all;

Entry tags:

catch-all;

who: Flint or Ellie (but probably not both) and anyone who cares to join them.
what: general catch-all log for the month of March
where: All around!
warnings: Ellie is a foul-mouthed teen with some trauma she'll never bother talking about but that might come up in introspection, and Flint is a considerably less foul-mouthed carpenter nee pirate captain with the same. Both tend to kill things with impunity, so maybe that? Idk. Will change if anything comes up.
notes: There are a variety of starters under the cut. Feel free to PM if you'd like one specifically tailored to you/your character or any scenario you'd like to run. I have a strong preference for present-tense brackets, but I'll match style if it's an accessibility issue no prob.

a; anywhere around Quarantine,

[Ellie definitely has a bag full of assorted types of candy that she is Determined To Try, but also: she pays a lot of attention to her surroundings and the people that occupy your space. You look sad? Lost, out of place, upset or any species of alone? Kid, adult, whatever, doesn't matter. Have some candy.]

Hey. You look like you need this more than I do.

b; anywhere around Quarantine,

[She has definitely found a place that's chill about renting motor scooters to minors (she has a permit now and everything). And that scooter has definitely gotten a flat tire. So now she's sitting on the curb with a mess of tools trying to strong-arm the exhaust off so she can get at the lug-nuts behind them. The new tire is on the sidewalk beside her and she is probably cursing loudly at something. Care to help?]

c; (for MCU!Bucky) in the woods somewhere,

[She is terrifically shitty at making her own arrows, but loathe to rely on just bullets. You never know when you'll need something quieter, or that you have a good chance of being able to recover later. So. She's. Experimenting. Out in the middle of nowhere, with a shitty fire, and some shitty sticks, and a variety of shitty arrow heads made from a variety of things she's collected. She is sitting down by a fire trying to figure out how to fletch them properly, and there's definitely a ruined pile of feathers beside her.]

Oh, for fuck's sake!

[Yep, she definitely just split that stick halfway down. There is a moment of vehement frustration, and then she throws the damn thing on the fire. It kicks sparks up into the sky, and she huffs in pure exasperation.

Also: be careful of the half-dozen tripwires she has set up around her perimeter, pal. Smoke-bombs are pretty harmless, but boy do they give away a position.]

d; (for DCEU!Clark) Clark's floor and shared quarters,

[Being able to cook, being able to find ingredients that aren't 'whatever you can throw in a pot' is probably the biggest fucking novelty of her life. Cookies. She's gonna do it. She thumbs through recipes on her tablet and eventually decides on gingersnaps. Some trial and error, one burnt batch and another decent one later and she is knocking on his door with a plate of them.]

e; (for Prison Break!Michael) sad stairwell shenanigans,

[She doesn't like elevators. Like, call her crazy, but relying on something that's just a series of pulleys and counterweights really isn't her thing, so she sticks to the stairs. It's not like they don't have their own problems (narrow corridors, not a lot of exits, etc) but she's more comfortable in them and tends to take them two at a time on principle.

Today, as she's heading down to the ground level she's stopped short by a guy. He's sitting down at the bottom of the steps that lead out to the second floor landing, facing away from her. There's something about the tension to his posture that makes her think he is probably several shades of not okay and she honestly debates with herself about whether or not she should just quietly edge out the door she came in through.

But. Eventually,]

Hey, pal, you all right?

[Her voice is gentle and soft, but she absolutely has one hand on the gun stuffed into the waistband of her pants. Just in case.]

z; forests around Quarantine and near the perimeter fence,

[Monsters pose no especial trouble to him. They are fierce and many, of course, but more predictable by half than any one man he has faced down at the point of a sword. He kills them, and having observed some resort to cannibalism he has taken to burning the bodies afterwards. Thick black smoke roils up from this latest pit, and James stands at the edge of it leaning on a shovel. He is dressed simply in all black, with no particular nod towards any one point in time. He has a modern rifle slung across his back, a modern handgun at his hip and a sword at the one opposite, so really: it's anyone's guess where the fuck he's from.

He can be found either killing monsters, burning them, inspecting various parts along the fence and/or cooking a particularly well-seasoned rabbit on a spit that is, thankfully, roasting over a fire made of wood rather than monsters. Feel free to join him at your leisure, but for the love of God don't sneak up on him.

Welcome in this thread: monster fighting! chats, cr building, disagreements about his Monster Murder, etc, all such things.]

y; communal living space floor 1, all comers welcome,

[And speaking of cooking. James is not a chef, nor a particularly charitable man, but he certainly knows how to foster camaraderie and the role in which food features to that end.

So: he's made a meal of glazed salmon, several side-dishes and has left a note out on the counter next to it, help yourselves in a neat, calligraphic scrawl. He can be found sitting on his bed with his back to the wall, reading, at any point thereafter. He keeps a chest at the foot of his bed absolutely laden with books, but he's presently working his way through Don Quixote by Cervantes.]

x; down by the river,

[He has claimed to be a carpenter, and to that end he has built several things with his own bare hands for use as a sort of... curriculum vitae, should the need for it arise. Presently, he is working on roughing out a single-log canoe. He's burnt out most of the inside, and is currently shaping the interior with a variety of hand-tools. He works simply, with speed that does not seem to be borne of urgency, and he will likewise seem untroubled should anyone join him there.

He'll give an acknowledging nod to anyone lingering nearby, but because he's a Stubborn Prick will likely not instigate conversation without prompting. Godspeed.]

v; (for Eddie Thrawn) cutpurses and piracy and thievery oh my

[Flint is not one for indulgences, but the public festival of Sampremi could potentially yield information beyond what he's culled from his own investigations, and so he goes.

He does not mingle. Mostly, he observes. This place has a dearth of the usual suspects he would expect to find in a crowd. No whores, no cutpurses to speak of, nothing that marks it as a place in which civilization has festered. But then, he has not yet had time to survey the jails, nor the local ordinances to see what the penalties are for failing to abide by the laws of men. Perhaps everyone is simply executed, and that would explain their lack.

He is standing beside a stall, having paid for an apple that he is currently polishing on the shoulder of his shirt when he sees it. A young girl. She is looking for a mark, he can tell by the way she looks so specifically at everyone that passes her, and once she sees someone who fits her criteria, she makes a point of stumbling into them. He watches her hands, and true to form she comes away with the man's wallet and turns to hurry off into the night.

James shrugs - neither his business nor his problem. If you don't keep a hand on your money you deserve its loss. But, as it turns out, he is not the only one to have seen this particular transaction. He was about to turn away when he sees the other man cut across the street to apprehend the girl, and it is then that he decides to drift closer. He does not care for thievery but less for men who set themselves above thieves.]

w; sailing the ocean blue,

[He has cleared an area on the ground. There are targets set up for projectile weaponry (ranging from bows to knives to guns) and an arena for physical combat. James will be seated at a table he has obviously built, working on building a star chart of the night sky as people arrive.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He's often out in the forest just to get away from the multitude of people, give himself some thinking space. He sleeps out here sometimes, even if it's dangerous, because there's less chance of someone coming across him at random.

It's the smoke from the fire that catches his attention first, and he very carefully scouts closer. He sees one tripwire and figures there must be more, so he shimmies up a tree instead and approaches that way, dropping nearly soundlessly down beside her when he sees who it is.]

That's not how you make arrows.

[Hello, Ellie.]

[To her credit, she doesn't scream.

What she does do is fling herself sideways onto the dirt beside the fire and kick a burning hunk of wood directly at whoeverthefuck that is. Her gun gets drawn in the same breath and she--

-- Recognizes that asshole, damnit.]

Jesus Christ! You scared the shit outta me!

[The fear reaction is obvious: wide eyes, fast pulse. Her hand is steady on the gun, but that's experience and training, not any lack of abject terror. You miss your shots, get ready to be a whole lot more terrified, after all.

And she still doesn't entirely trust this dude. But she shoves herself up onto her elbows, and then her knees, and then her feet all without lowering the gun.]

Are you fucking following me?

[It's lucky that he has fast reactions.

One gloved hand flies up and catches the burning wood before it can hit him in the face, the smell of singed leather strong in the clearing before he drops it back on the fire. At least the hand beneath it is metal, so he didn't actually get burned.]

I saw the smoke.

[He's not even going to mention the fire attack. It's good that she's ready for potential enemies.]

Came to investigate, saw what you were doing.

[Is this dude the fucking terminator or something like she's really starting to have her suspicions. She just glares at him with full-force teenage ire as she sits down again on a fallen tree. On the other side of the fire. She isn't about to put that gun away, but she sits with her hands and it by extension between her knees, pointed at the ground.]

Yeah, well, you need to think about wearing a fucking bell. Shit, how many times do I have to almost shoot you before you get the picture?

[That he still hasn't attacked her hasn't gone unnoticed, she's just grumpy because she's scared out of her wits, thanks.]

[He doesn't trust her, and he certainly doesn't trust himself to be around people, but she was kind to him. He's not had a lot of that in a long time, and he thinks he might owe her for being generous enough to look the other way when he took that food. Perhaps the least he can do is teach her to make decent arrows.]

You couldn't shoot me.

[He says it like it's simple fact.]

Why are you out here making arrows?

[Fact or otherwise, she'd be terrified if she thought he meant it as because I can dodge instead of how she chooses to take it: she's a nice girl who chose not to shoot him last time, and would probably make those same choices again. As it is, she just rolls her eyes. Sure, fine, she couldn't shoot you. Whatever, you creepy, sneaky jerk.]

Because when you fuck one up, you've got a whole forest of spares?

[A vague gesture around them at the forest. She's got all the supplies she needs right here. And it comes with the added bonus of not having to justify herself to anyone who can't understand why a fifteen year old girl sleeps with a knife under her pillow. Why she'd be making arrows in the first place. She doesn't want to have to explain to a stranger that nothing feels right here. That she doesn't know how to exist in a place where safety is just... a given instead of something you steal for yourself for minutes, for hours, with violence and blood. Ever since he broke into her place she's been leaving it more and more often, scared of how vulnerable that safety makes her. She needs to stay sharp.

She rubs her arm across her face so she doesn't have to take a hand off her gun and then nods to the bundle of sticks beside him.]

You gonna show me how, then?

Edited 2017-03-11 22:17 (UTC)

[There's no way that he thinks that she won't shoot him. She points that gun with the air of someone experienced, and he has no doubt that she'll try to plug several rounds into him without hesitation if he makes the wrong move. And that's okay. He can still handle it.

Because he gets why someone would sleep with a knife under their pillow, and he doesn't understand a world of kindness and safety either. He's displaced, seems like she is too, and maybe that's why he came out of the shadows instead of just slipping away again when he saw it was her.]

You got a bow?

[It's not a no, not a yes either.]

Arrows aren't much good without a bow.

[What's it to you? She almost says it, it's on the tip of her tongue. It doesn't take much to resort to sarcasm and attitude. It hides the fear.

But. Instead, she swallows. There's something that's-- weirdly calming about his presence. Something known. So maybe she doesn't know his real name, or where he's from or why he's out here, but his reasons for giving a pseudonym, for being out in the bush far away from all the others... those she can understand, or at least ascribe meaning to. It makes him familiar.

She'd trust someone like that over someone who's never even held a gun any day. That's probably fucked up, she'll try not to examine that too closely.]

I've got a bow. It came with me. [A pause. Then, more sharply,] And I know how to use it, too, so you can cut any bullshit about it.

[Bows and arrows aren't really his thing. The Soldier was mostly trained with top of the range firearms and explosives, and Bucky had been a sniper back in the army, but he had a handler once who wanted to make sure that even if he found himself without technology then he'd be able to do the job. He is hardly a master fletcher, but he can make a few arrows.

He just nods, not questioning her ability to use a bow, and sorts through her piles of sticks for a suitable one to start trimming down.]

You've got to make them all the same weight, same length, or you won't be able to fire them with any consistent accuracy.

[She rolls her eyes, looking a little put upon.]

Duh. I know that. You don't need to explain how logic works, I just don't know how to make the stupid feathers stick to it.

[She points to the pile of aforementioned feathers, mostly grouse, obviously from something she hunted and killed herself. This assumption can absolutely be helped along by the faintly lingering smell of cooked bird in the air, and the fact that the left-overs have been wrapped in tinfoil and set near enough the flames to stay warm without overcooking.

She chews at her bottom lip.]

Should I come over there?

[Easier to see when you aren't looking through the heat shimmer of a fire, but she still isn't certain how close she really wants to get to this guy.]

[She's not the only one unsure, he doesn't know how much he trusts himself to be near anyone, and she's just a kid. He doubts that she could hurt him, but he could sure as hell do a lot of damage to her.

He quite obviously tenses up at the question, eyes focused and intense on her across the fire, but he doesn't say no.]

Keep an arm's length away.

[For both of their safety.

He flips a knife out of his sleeve with an expert movement and begins to make notches in the wood, shallow but at an angle, to hold the feathers into place.]

[No arguing with that. She gets up and comes warily around the fire and ends up seated on a rock roughly that distance away from him. She still hasn't put the gun away, but she figures if it hasn't bothered him by now it probably won't. She's not going to apologize for looking after her own safety. Maybe if he was just... some normal guy from some normal world, she'd have put it away against her better judgement and instincts. But he isn't. She doesn't have to pretend she isn't either.

She watches with interest, though. His comfort with a knife is obvious. She's been using one as long as she can remember, and she can't make cuts that clean.]

So... [presumably, she can just learn from watching. Which means.] How've you been? Any luck with that shower?

[She's hilarious.]

[It's probably obvious from the slight smell of sweat, not too strong or unpleasant but definitely there, that he hasn't had any luck with a shower yet. The look he gives her is pretty blank in response.]

You tell anyone about that?

[Him breaking in, he means.

He keeps his eyes on her, hands moving with the surety of someone who's done this sort of task so many times that it really is second nature. Not necessarily making arrows, but anything with knives and guns.]

[Oh.

Somehow, abruptly, she feels guilty, and she looks down at her sneakers and scuffs the ground.]

A friend asked about the bullet hole. I said some guy broke in. [Not a name, or a face. She handled it, after all.] But I mentioned you didn't hurt me, so. No pitchforks or anything. He's a cool guy anyway, pretty chill. With-- you know, all of. This.

[A shrug, meant to encompass more than just their surroundings. Her particular brand of off-kilter weirdness that she and this stranger seem to share.]

[He's surprised that she didn't tell more. But that someone knows about it is worrying, he'll have to be even more careful. Maybe avoid taking things from the complex for a while, stick to shops and stalls.

He nods, neither condemning her or thanking her. He just holds out the arrow to show her how he's notched the wood and got the feathers slotted in fairly neatly.]

It's better if you don't tell anyone else.

[She takes it from him with her left hand, leaving her right on the gun, and spins it between her fingers to examine how he's done it. A low whistle of appreciation is in order, looks like.]

Pretty nice. Here, I'll try the next one.

[Which. Means putting her gun down. She takes a deep breath, thumbs the safety on and sets it down next to her. Still easy to grab, still not out of the way, but. Maybe it's some small gesture of trust, to start. The arrow gets stabbed point down into the ground.]

I mean... I wasn't planning on it. It's your business. I only told Clark because he asked. [She reaches for one of the other sticks laid out, and once she has a decent one in her hands she looks back up at him.] You just the world's most private guy or something? Or are you hiding from someone?

[She doesn't really expect to be told, but. People are telling. In what they do say as much as what they don't.]

[Clark, interesting. He remembers that guy from the storm, softly spoken and seemingly kind, but nothing much more than that. He files the name away as a possible threat if he knows about the break ins, though they both have different fake names so it should be easy to keep deniability.

His expression shutters effectively when the question comes, giving absolutely nothing away in his tone either.]

Sometimes it's better to be left alone.

[He picks up another stick and starts making another arrow of his own while she does hers, it gives him something else to focus on.]

Why do you think I'm out here?

[Her smile's a bit. Brittle. But at least it's there. She's not who she used to be. She's not yet who she'll be tomorrow. You have to take things one day at a time. Accept that the only way forward is through.

She still has hope, but she wonders now, how much longer it'll be before it gets snuffed out too. She needles her pocketknife into the wood and chances another look at him.]

Company's not all bad, though. Sometimes it's... nice. When somebody gets it.

[It takes him too long to realise that she might just be referring to him, and that earns her a tiny flicker of surprise. She thinks he's nice company? Or at least not too bad... that's really not a commonly held opinion.

He has no idea what to say to it, though.

Small talk isn't his area of expertise, not after everything with HYDRA, and he's still not quite used to being a person again with choice and all that entails. It leaves him floundering for a reply, though it just manifests as stoic silence while he stares at the arrow he's making with way too much focus.]

[Hey. She gets it. When you spend the better part of a year with a guy three times your age and with at least ten times the emotional constipation? Yeah. Old hat. You carry on with your Stoically Silent self, pal, she's got this.

Her knife curls out a long, thin strip of wood and she flicks it at the fire, watching it contort in on itself and burn.]

Hey. When was the last time you ate anything?

[At least the direct question is something he can answer.]

Yesterday morning.

[He doesn't feel the need to lie to her for some reason, perhaps because she hasn't given off the impression that she's ever going to get overly sympathetic or try to trap him for his own good.]

[She does groan faintly in something very much like exasperation.]

Seriously? Come on, guy.

[She sets her arrow aside for now, and reaches for the tinfoil wrapped remainder of the bird, which she holds out towards him. Olive branch, and all. How has this dude survived this long on his own, tho. Well, she's pretty sure she knows the answer to that question, but still.]

Here. We can call it payment for you teaching me how not to fail entirely at making arrows. Deal?

Deal.

[Payment is easier to accept than charity, so he takes the wrapped tinfoil and opens it up. The remains of the bird are gone in literally sixty seconds flat, wolfed down until there's nothing but bones and grease left.

He lives in a strange dichotomy, in that his body needs a lot of calories to keep going, the serum burns through them at a ridiculous rate, but he's also been taught to endure long stretches without food, water, or shelter, so he can ignore the hunger. He's not going to pass it up when it's right there, though.

Done with the food, he picks his arrow up again and keeps fletching.]

Why a bow?

[He could ask her who taught her, but that's too personal a question. The why is probably less so.]

Holy shit, dude.

[Yesterday morning in-fucking-deed. She has more with her, of course, mostly canned goods. She likes knowing she can survive a few days out here if something goes sideways, but now she's thinking it might be better if she just cooks it on the spot to make sure this jerk doesn't starve. Jeeze.

She shakes her head at his question, and lifts one shoulder. Half a shrug.]

I dunno. It's quieter, I guess. If you need to shoot somebody.

[And quiet, for somebody her size, is a big deal. If you can take somebody out and move to another spot without ever having given away enough for them to track you? Funny, how she thinks of it as something to use against hunters rather than Infected. Maybe that's telling. Once upon a time she might have balked at killing another human. Sure as shit not anymore.]

[It's a good enough reason, though it does raise other questions. Does she not come from a world with silencers? Strangely, he doesn't find himself wondering what sort of world a teenage girl would need to shoot silently in. He already knows that world, there are dark places everywhere.

She can definitely use her gun, he's seen it in the way she holds it. A silencer would be a better idea than a bow and arrow; that's unwieldy, limited, hardly ideal.]

You need to shoot somebody often?

[It's a quiet question, completely without judgement.]

c;

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is it okay if this is set before Bucky stupidly breaks his leg?

yeah of course! also: bucky what trouble are you getting into omg

turns out kryptonians are surprisingly hard when you kick them....

... omg but why would you do that ever. buckpls.

r e a s o n s

poor clark, you're going to give the guy a complex

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