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.]

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.

(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.

[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.

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.]

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.]

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.

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.]

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.