catch-all;

[pundemic]

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.]

Comments

w;

[divulsion]

[For a time she thought she would reply to his network post with a question. Would he mind someone stopping by to observe rather than participate? She didn't want to give others the impression that it was what he would welcome, however, so she'd stayed quiet. Resolved to simply drop in instead. If he didn't mind, it would give her a chance to observe his skills, see what he was teaching others, his style and handling in working with others. That in turn might paint a clearer picture about the man he is, something that Wanda is still keen on doing as he's not a man inclined to divulge his life story easily.

She arrives dressed for the occasion just in case, however. Leggings and boots over skirts and heels, a loose tank top over something more restrictive or fitted, and a zip-up hoodie she bought in town a while back, before the storm.]

This is quite the set-up you have here, James. [He gave her his first name first, and unless he says to do otherwise she'll call him by it.]

[diagenesis]

[He cannot remember the last time he failed to stand for a woman coming into a room. Flint is by needs less partial to that detail, but it pained him every time he ignored it. Manners are a thing ingrained, learned at his mother's knee, and then his grandfather's, and then Admiral Hennessy's, though he was quite a bit taller than knees by the time the Navy laid its claim to him.

James joined of his own volition. No press-ganging in a time of war, as it was with Billy. He'd have made a life of it if they'd had him, but for one simple profanity.

He nods to her as he gets to his feet, and tries not to think of Miranda.]

Miss Maximoff. Pleasure to see you again.

[divulsion]

[Wanda's not someone who was raised with the same sort of manners that he was. The expectations of both herself and Pietro are different in her time and country than his. The things her parents focused on were similar enough. Good table manners. Pleases and thank yous. Giving up bus seats to the elderly or infirm. For Wanda, graciously accepting when someone opens a door for her despite being fully capable of doing so herself.

She has no expectations of him when it comes to his manners, but she finds she likes it more than she expected to be given such courtesies. His standing and the nod of acknowledgment earns him a nod in return as she joins him near the table.]

And you. [Her gaze flicks down to the paper on the table, before it rises to look him in the eyes once more.] What is this you're working on? May I? [She'd love to pick it up, to examine it in more detail.]

e;

[prisonking]

[ Michael's not alright. He hasn't been alright for a long time. Maybe never.

He knows she's there before she speaks. He heard her footsteps echoing through the stairwell, and felt the silence, the weight of her gaze, as she stops. Hesitates. He expects her to turn around, to go back the way she came. Pretend she never saw him. He hadn't seen her. It would be easy to forget this moment had ever happened.

But she doesn't leave. She stays. She speaks. He can hear the concern in her voice, real or forced, it's there.

He wants it to be real. Even as he scrubs the tears away from his eyes with the cuff of his shirt, erasing his shame, his pain, the evidence of his weakness, he wants her to care. For someone to care. Anyone.

Solitary confinement was less lonely than this place.

Michael turns his head, looking back over his shoulder, and lies. Like he always does. ]

Yeah, I'm fine. Just taking a breather.

[pundemic]

[She recognizes that little snuffle he makes when he lifts a hand. She can honestly, genuinely say she doesn't think she's ever seen a man cry. Honestly, she's not really sure she's ever seen anyone cry. The Apocalypse sort of does that to you, she supposes. People don't have tears left for the little things, and by now everyone's so used to death, to dying, there's just this sort of... cold indifference that sinks into your bones and chokes you out from inside.

But that doesn't mean she can't care. He's a guy, bigger than her, with all the advantages in this narrow little stairwell, but she comes closer. Wary, all her weight balanced on her back foot, her hand on her pistol and the other raised towards him like she can possibly hope to fend him off if he goes violent in a hurry.]

Didn't look like a breather to me.

[She says it in a soft, neutral tone. She's not trying to show him up or anything, or even force him to talk. Just acknowledging that it's all right not to-- well, be all right.

Finally, eventually, she's standing beside him on the landing, and she takes a deep breath. Sits down beside him. She can't walk away from someone that's hurting. She won't. Nobody deserves to be alone.]

Hey. You don't have to be fine if you aren't. My name's Ellie, what's yours?

[prisonking]

[ He tries forcing himself to breathe deep breaths, so his heart isn't racing, and his chest isn't heaving. Michael knows what weakness looks like, he's taken advantage of it often enough. He couldn't be weak back home, and he can't be weak here.

Then sits beside him. Speaks softly. He can feel the warmth of her body, small and slight, against his side. His lower lip trembles. He covers his face with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. ]

Michael.

[ He wants to be fine. Needs to be. Michael knows himself, knows he can't trust himself to think rationally, or to do what needs to be done when he's overcome with emotion.

Michael needs to be good. Better than good. He needs to be the best, because if he can do what no one else can, and be more than useful, be necessary, he'll be worth something to this place, and the people who can bring him his brother.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, that might turn this around. Most days it's as easy as flicking a switch. The mask goes on, the lie comes out, and everything goes according to plan.

Nothing is going according to plan. ]

I-I'm fine.

(d)

[signifies]

[ Ellie, he doesn't actually go here. Clark comes and goes, sometimes sticking around if she's upstairs, but otherwise he's out.

She's lucky this isn't one of those times. Clark's sitting cross-legged on his assigned bunk, reading a comic book he picked up from the library (it has a hero with a red cape who can fly) when she knocks. ]

Yes, come in.

[pundemic]

[She slips inside. Wary, a bit. Her attention tracks: windows, escape routes, places to hide, and then she gives him a smile.]

Clark, hey. You know... you got me thinking about this whole baking thing. So I gave it a shot.

[She holds out the wrapped plate of cookies. They're maybe a tiny bit burnt, but they smell good. She's too concerned with wasting ingredients not to have done a decent job of it her very first time.]

You wanna give them a try? See what you think?

[signifies]

[ Clark has made sure there's at least one open window. It serves the purpose of giving her somewhere she can use to escape, and in case he needs to get out of this room in a hurry.

He could smell the cookies, but he hadn't thought they were for him, specifically. Clark expects the unspoken contract of social interaction-- things like civility, not personal consideration. He's not used to being on the receiving end. It's very sweet of her, and he hopes she didn't feel obligated.

Clark closes his comic book and sets it at the top of a stack, getting up. ]

I'd love to. In the kitchen?

[signifies]

( wildcard option for flint if that's okay )

[ When he's not in the forest or around the housing block, Clark likes to spend his free time in the library. He sees James from time to time. He's often in the science section, picking up books on the inventions that have come to pass since his century. They nod to each other but don't often sit together.

When they do, Clark finds in him a curious nature, and a deep understanding of what's around them. He doesn't often meet people who know their place in the world, or seem to be so secure in it.

He suggests books from time to time, but one really catches his eye to the extent that he borrows under his own card and takes it with him to deliver personally.

Clark knocks at his door when he can hear the man inside, and the room is otherwise empty. ]

James? It's me.

[diagenesis]

(ayep all good by me.)


[James is a wellspring of solitude, in this place. He rarely troubles himself to seek out company, though he does not go out of his way to eschew it. He is a man unmade by circumstance. James McGraw is not James Flint is not James Barlow, yet he persists in being.

Cobbling together a new existence is not as easy as sitting beside Mr. Gates at a tavern and conjuring up some childhood horror in which to cloak himself. Mr. Barlow is a widower, a carpenter, a navy man. Someone who is tired. Someone who is honest.

Yet every man he's ever been loves to read. He cannot cut away that part of himself. Could not ever, he thinks, and so even here he persists. He is sitting on the couch, one arm draped along its strangely textured cushions, Don Quixote propped on his thigh, his other hand braced between the pages. He shifts when he needs to turn one. He is not slow to read, nor does he - like so many of his contemporaries - need to mouth words aloud as he goes.

He pauses, though, at that knock and the words that follow. Lays a red ribbon between the pages and takes his feet down from the coffee table as if the ghost of eighteenth century propriety has somehow followed him here.]

Enter.

[signifies]

[ So that's where Don Quixote went.

The door clicks shut softly behind him. Clark smiles, reflexive politeness, true, but James holds the record for longest conversation Clark's had with anyone here besides Ellie.

It helps that James doesn't feel the need to fill up silence. Clark doesn't honestly mind, but he was never much of a talker. ]

Hope I'm not disturbing you. I found a book I thought you'd like to read.

c;

[advanced]

[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.]

[pundemic]

[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?

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

[advanced]

[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.

w

[somnioergosum]

[Ronan's come. Whether or not he bothered to check his phone-- well, not technically a phone but close enough in his eyes-- or he's just attracted to anything deadly, is anyone's guess. Walking up, he exudes the words "destined for prison." It's not just the tattoos of ravens, claws, and branches that snakes up from his back to above his collar. It's more the way he stares at the weapons after a quick glance at James. That look doesn't spell trouble. It spells hunger.]

I've known assassins with a smaller arsenal, man.

[That's not a complaint, which is evident in his sharp smile.]

[diagenesis]

[The comment, such that it is, actually makes him chuckle. James shakes his head, and gestures with his pen to the main body of said arsenal.]

I can't take credit for ownership. Most of it's on loan.

[Given that they share a communal space, he has of course seen Ronan around. Their acquaintance has been mainly a plethora of nods and calculated, noncommittal silence. It's a quality he can appreciate in a bunkmate, at least, and so he keeps his tone affable enough.]

[somnioergosum]

[Silence, in Ronan's book, is seldom bad. He appreciates anyone who can wield it as a weapon though admittedly a less dangerous one than this array.]

Don't think they take credit cards here.

[His hand hovers over some of the weapons, sweeping across them as if checking their auras. It occurs to him that he doesn't know how to actually handle any of these. Fists have always been his first choice. They require little forethought or maintenance and you've only yourself to blame if they fail you.]

Do you know how to use all of these or do you prefer astrology?

[He noted the chart. He's just not used to seeing a star chart in conjunction with a hobby outside of the paranormal, ley lines, and Welsh history/folk lore]

b!

[fingerstripes]

[ Dick spots the kid mid-detour, crossing the street on his way back in to quarantine. The bike isn't his either (at least not yet it's not) but Nightwing is gonna need wheels and getting his hands on what this place has to offer in that department is a place to start.

He has a job he's late for, after he trades in this monster. He has patrol to get to. A city's worth of recon to fit in there somewhere. But she looks young, and she's by herself. He can't pass her.

He doubles back a little and stops a short distance away, leaning a little on the steerage. ]

If you cut off the exhaust port you're gonna be out more than a tire.

[pundemic]

[Who the actual fuck is this dude? Ellie gives him an intensely suspicious look before scoffing a little at that friendly 'advice'. She's also instantly aware of the fact that she's sitting down, and he's standing. He might not be a big guy, but she doesn't like that disparity and so scrambles up off the sidewalk, dusting her hands on her jeans.

Also, for the bats among us: she is definitely carrying a gun stuffed into the waistband of her pants. It's a small-calibre pistol, but it makes an awkward silhouette against her long-sleeved shirt if you know what to look for.]

Does it look like I'm cutting it? Whoever designed this fucking thing must've done it with their head up their ass.

[Seriously, who would block off access to the lug-nuts-- bolts, whatever, the things that keep the tire on like this? She has to take the muffler off to even begin undoing them. This is so stupid she may never rent another one.]

[fingerstripes]

[ He spots the gun at once, but it says something that she hasn't gone for it yet. He's also not... really in the mood today for a standoff with a terrified teenager, so it does the job of keeping him where he is. She's right to be wary of helpful strangers. ]

It cuts down on drag, when it's mounted right. I guess that counts for more when you're in the business of selling bikes.

v.

[causational]

[Eddie picked the girl out right away as a pickpocket, the same way Flint had, though possibly for different reasons. Right now, he's on plainclothes duty, mingling with the crowd, concealed carry holster and weapon tucked under a leather jacket, but with a visible earpiece. Unobtrusive but not invisible as a police officer. It's his job to be on the lookout for people like her.

But he's also under orders to use his discretion. So when he watches her take a man's wallet and cuts across the street, jogging to catch up with her, he's relatively discreet about it. She darts to try to get away from him, but it's a short chase - she can't be more than 15, has kind of a rough look about her like she's not living well, maybe a runaway, and he's experienced. It seems like the girl is less so, and she deflates, looking on the verge of tears, falling still.

It isn't a very long interaction - Eddie gives her a stern talking-to, expression serious while she looks more and more worried, he takes the wallet back from her and tucks it into his jacket pocket. Then his expression softens a little, he asks the girl if she's hungry or in trouble, and hands her a card for one of the public services in the Quarantine, and directs her to Wanda's booth for some free food. Before sending her off, he gives her a firm warning.

As she walks off, Eddie takes the wallet back out of his pocket, checks the picture on the ID, and scans the crowd until he picks out the man it belongs to, patting down his pockets in a fit of panic. Jogging over, Eddie hands the wallet over to him with a smile, and then starts back off down the sidewalk, eyes still scanning the crowd.]

[diagenesis]

[The exchange is, if one pardons the pun, almost arresting. James finds himself watching it keenly, waiting for the moment at which the man takes advantage and finds to something very nearly like surprise that the moment in question never arrives.

It does not make him inclined to trust the man. Nor does he, strictly speaking, appreciate those who are soft-hearted. Yet this stranger looks very much like a man he used to know, and Thomas...

Would have, and had on numerous occasions, done the same.

He drifts closer of his own volition. Watches him pass the wallet back to its rightful owner, and then he speaks,]

That was kind of you. What you did for that girl.

wild card;

[adiuvio]

[ There's nothing special about this place. It's just one dive bar of many tucked into a dark corner of the city. Someplace to go for men with nowhere to be. The lights are dim, the drinks are cheap, and the smoke is heavy. The bar-tender only smiles at the regulars, and the regulars don't smile unless they're drunk. On a weeknight, most are.

John's a regular now. He stops by every day after work, sits on the same stool beside the same man, and drinks the same house bourbon until he decides to go home.

It's a comfortable routine. A break from the chaos and disorder of his life, or, more accurately, his after-life, since for all intents and purposes he was already dead. Excommunicado.

The brand still burns. More than he'd ever thought it would. More than the bourbon can help. John had walked away from the Continental once before, but that had been his choice. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, there had been a certain comfort in knowing those doors were always open to him. That he could always belong somewhere, and know someone, if he wanted to.

He doesn't know anyone here. Drinking is the closest he gets to socializing. His closest friend is sitting next to him, a man whose name he doesn't know, who he's never spoken to. Drinking company with no-strings-attached.

Maybe he's drank too much, or maybe it's just been too long since he's communicated, since he was ex-communicated, and the silence isn't as easy or as comfortable as it used to be.

John drinks his drink, turns his head, and looks over at the man for what feels like the first time. It probably is. ]

I'm John.

[diagenesis]

[He does not permit himself to public drunkenness, or any such species of inebriation it might be mistaken as such. He has one drink, at one time, and leaves. It is a concession, a tip of the hat to the fact that there is no rolling deck beneath his feet, no ocean spray throwing salt into the sky. No sails, no sea. He has had dreams of being a landed man, whose hands are covered in nothing more sinister than harvest dirt, but this is not the place for it. He dreams of oars, and of shovels, instead.

Here, though. He drinks rum, pays with enough of a tip that no one protests his presence but leaves no expectation of undue generosity. The stranger at his right side provides a familiar ambiance. Shadows war between them in the flickering lights.

They drink in silence for days. The days bleed into a fortnight. James' Flint and McGraw are both creatures of rigid discipline, of routine. The man he is becoming is more lax on those points, but nevertheless the divergence makes him raise a brow.

He rubs a rough thumb against the lip of his glass, and looks askance at the man whose silence he had long taken for granted. At length:]

James.