Richie "Bitch Baby Tears" Tozier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
summertimeblues) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nysalogs2018-03-25 03:56 pm
summertimeblues) wrote in nysalogs2018-03-25 03:56 pm
(Open) Don't you dare say his name...
Who: Richie Tozier (summertimeblues) & you lucky guys
What: Dealing very poorly with torture, dying, and coming back to life. He didn't sign up to be Jesus
When: Mar. 25th-27th
Where: Olympia, Thesa Station, Flona Cove
Warning(s): Drug and alcohol use and abuse, mentions of gore/death/suicide, sad pod crying, icky feelings.
I: Thesa Station
[There's a relative quiet among the sleeping. It is, in effect, a graveyard. People are here to show their respects, to mourn and to yearn. Today though, wherever you might be, there's a serenade rattling the air between the glass chambers. A guitar thrum mimicked through slaps on the metal to support the rollicking vocals of Elvis Presley. Back from the dead and ready to slide and shake in those blue suede shoes.]
Spider Murphy played the tenor saxophone
Little Joe was blowin' on the slide trombone
The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bang
The whole rhythm section was the Purple Gang
Let's rock! Everybody let's rock!
[If you round the right corner, you won't find the King. But you'll find Richie Tozier, seated between in a row of about five pods: there's a handsome man in cowboy boots, a black man cut and battered and bandaged to bits, a thin mousy type with a jerry-rigged cast on his arm and rounded specs, a stunning woman whose red hair spills around her in a halo of curls, and a balding man who, even while sleeping, belies a unquantifiable charm and steadiness. He's having the time of his life with a half-finished gin bottle in one hand as the other busies itself playing drums and beats. He's pale, poorly slept if the purple punch bags under his eyes are any indication, and there's a still smoking cigarette butt laying its ash on the floor next to him. But he's seemingly in good spirits, high on the music.]
Everybody in the whole cell block
Was dancin' to the Jailhouse Ro—hey! Hey you! You know this next part, get in on it!
II: Friends in Low Places.
[The bars are that sweet shade of not-too-busy-not-too-slow. Richie slips in and out of the crowds with no difficulty and no recognition. He avoids Shades Darker (hasn't gone back to work yet), avoids places he knows. Sticking clean to the unfamiliar. This place wasn't home and even months later it was failing to pick up any kind of coziness to wilt back on.
But as determined as he is to stay solo and shrug into shadows, he can't help that rising sense of panic. Of emptiness. If he shuts his eyes too long he can hear those howling voices again. He's no man of god but those three days suspended in some ghastly in-between place have left him with doubts. There doesn't have to be a god for there to be a hell.
He doesn't want to keep marinating on it. Desperate and suddenly shaking in the hands, he moves to take a seat at the bar. Someone's just settled in and made an order. Richie slips coins on the counter.]
Make it two. Put 'em both on my tab.
III: Take out your trash
[It would have done to exercise a touch of caution. Sadly he's long since parted ways with the word for the evening. Still frightened, still angry, still too squeamish to go see the people he used to know, Richie's spent the night skipping from bar to bar. To back hall. To alley. He's had a hell of a lot to drink. Smoked something he didn't know the name of, took a couple pills that were offered with glitzy promises for whatever coin he could spare. He'd had a fair bit to spare and lord, it all flew out of his hands like your Auntie's cockatiel making a break for the open window. And he got his party, his fun and his romp and his blissful cloud of forgetfulness. For a few hours, he wasn't Richie Tozier at all. He'd drifted and wandered and basked in the blank beauty of a world he didn't comprehend.
And the journey ended with him folded up in a cobblestone alley. His head lies knocked back against the building's side, legs crooked to the side as he sleeps deep. It's frigid cold, he has the coat and gloves and boots, but passing out sometime around four am with no hurry for shelter leaves him as cold and stiff as a statue. A nasty shock for anyone taking a nighttime stroll or hustling about in the break of dawn.]
IV: Flona Cove- wildcard-ish
[Eventually, even the city itself seems to press in around him like a vice. He'd made the trip out to the Cove a few times, once with the herd for that festival and again with the two girls to check on those dead birds. The train ride over makes him smile, thinking of the way Ann and Haru had gossiped and giggled. The spark is fleeting. He exits the train in the same silent stupor he'd boarded it with.
He'll spend the day exploring. At the beach, he might take out a boat just for kicks, pretend it's January in California and he's got to hit the water before he forgets which coast he's living on. He might check out the tourist traps. Wind up in a gambling hall for shits and giggles. Or he might drift to that little cave with the cool pool, just to sit and think and fill the air with swilling smoke as he works through yet another pack for the day.]
V: Homecoming - closed to previous cr
[It takes a lot longer than he'd be proud to admit. Richie wasn't brave by nature, particularly not when it came to making the big breaks and mends. He was better at playing shit off like nothing mattered and all he cared for was getting his chucks in before meeting his Maker.
Well he went to do it didn't he? And that fucker hadn't showed. Now he's back on soil, and he's wasted a lot of time skirting the small issue of his miraculous return.
Eventually, he figures he ought to make a few rounds. House calls, then.
The knock at the door only comes after two minutes of fussing and a near abandoment of the whole plan. He'd slinked about five steps away before the guilt got the better of him and he finally could raise knuckles to the wood of that door. When it opens, he stands in the frame of it stiffly. His smile is wan and his hands stick doggedly to his pockets. He can't even use his own voice to say hello, coward that he is.]
Howdy partner.
summertimeblues) & you lucky guysWhat: Dealing very poorly with torture, dying, and coming back to life. He didn't sign up to be Jesus
When: Mar. 25th-27th
Where: Olympia, Thesa Station, Flona Cove
Warning(s): Drug and alcohol use and abuse, mentions of gore/death/suicide, sad pod crying, icky feelings.
I: Thesa Station
[There's a relative quiet among the sleeping. It is, in effect, a graveyard. People are here to show their respects, to mourn and to yearn. Today though, wherever you might be, there's a serenade rattling the air between the glass chambers. A guitar thrum mimicked through slaps on the metal to support the rollicking vocals of Elvis Presley. Back from the dead and ready to slide and shake in those blue suede shoes.]
Spider Murphy played the tenor saxophone
Little Joe was blowin' on the slide trombone
The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bang
The whole rhythm section was the Purple Gang
Let's rock! Everybody let's rock!
[If you round the right corner, you won't find the King. But you'll find Richie Tozier, seated between in a row of about five pods: there's a handsome man in cowboy boots, a black man cut and battered and bandaged to bits, a thin mousy type with a jerry-rigged cast on his arm and rounded specs, a stunning woman whose red hair spills around her in a halo of curls, and a balding man who, even while sleeping, belies a unquantifiable charm and steadiness. He's having the time of his life with a half-finished gin bottle in one hand as the other busies itself playing drums and beats. He's pale, poorly slept if the purple punch bags under his eyes are any indication, and there's a still smoking cigarette butt laying its ash on the floor next to him. But he's seemingly in good spirits, high on the music.]
Everybody in the whole cell block
Was dancin' to the Jailhouse Ro—hey! Hey you! You know this next part, get in on it!
II: Friends in Low Places.
[The bars are that sweet shade of not-too-busy-not-too-slow. Richie slips in and out of the crowds with no difficulty and no recognition. He avoids Shades Darker (hasn't gone back to work yet), avoids places he knows. Sticking clean to the unfamiliar. This place wasn't home and even months later it was failing to pick up any kind of coziness to wilt back on.
But as determined as he is to stay solo and shrug into shadows, he can't help that rising sense of panic. Of emptiness. If he shuts his eyes too long he can hear those howling voices again. He's no man of god but those three days suspended in some ghastly in-between place have left him with doubts. There doesn't have to be a god for there to be a hell.
He doesn't want to keep marinating on it. Desperate and suddenly shaking in the hands, he moves to take a seat at the bar. Someone's just settled in and made an order. Richie slips coins on the counter.]
Make it two. Put 'em both on my tab.
III: Take out your trash
[It would have done to exercise a touch of caution. Sadly he's long since parted ways with the word for the evening. Still frightened, still angry, still too squeamish to go see the people he used to know, Richie's spent the night skipping from bar to bar. To back hall. To alley. He's had a hell of a lot to drink. Smoked something he didn't know the name of, took a couple pills that were offered with glitzy promises for whatever coin he could spare. He'd had a fair bit to spare and lord, it all flew out of his hands like your Auntie's cockatiel making a break for the open window. And he got his party, his fun and his romp and his blissful cloud of forgetfulness. For a few hours, he wasn't Richie Tozier at all. He'd drifted and wandered and basked in the blank beauty of a world he didn't comprehend.
And the journey ended with him folded up in a cobblestone alley. His head lies knocked back against the building's side, legs crooked to the side as he sleeps deep. It's frigid cold, he has the coat and gloves and boots, but passing out sometime around four am with no hurry for shelter leaves him as cold and stiff as a statue. A nasty shock for anyone taking a nighttime stroll or hustling about in the break of dawn.]
IV: Flona Cove- wildcard-ish
[Eventually, even the city itself seems to press in around him like a vice. He'd made the trip out to the Cove a few times, once with the herd for that festival and again with the two girls to check on those dead birds. The train ride over makes him smile, thinking of the way Ann and Haru had gossiped and giggled. The spark is fleeting. He exits the train in the same silent stupor he'd boarded it with.
He'll spend the day exploring. At the beach, he might take out a boat just for kicks, pretend it's January in California and he's got to hit the water before he forgets which coast he's living on. He might check out the tourist traps. Wind up in a gambling hall for shits and giggles. Or he might drift to that little cave with the cool pool, just to sit and think and fill the air with swilling smoke as he works through yet another pack for the day.]
V: Homecoming - closed to previous cr
[It takes a lot longer than he'd be proud to admit. Richie wasn't brave by nature, particularly not when it came to making the big breaks and mends. He was better at playing shit off like nothing mattered and all he cared for was getting his chucks in before meeting his Maker.
Well he went to do it didn't he? And that fucker hadn't showed. Now he's back on soil, and he's wasted a lot of time skirting the small issue of his miraculous return.
Eventually, he figures he ought to make a few rounds. House calls, then.
The knock at the door only comes after two minutes of fussing and a near abandoment of the whole plan. He'd slinked about five steps away before the guilt got the better of him and he finally could raise knuckles to the wood of that door. When it opens, he stands in the frame of it stiffly. His smile is wan and his hands stick doggedly to his pockets. He can't even use his own voice to say hello, coward that he is.]
Howdy partner.
no subject
Should've seen the other guy. [ said casually, and followed by a slightly lopsided shrug, given the injury leading up one arm. ] As it happens, I've left a stack of paperwork unguarded, but I can only hope someone'll take it off my, er, [ wrinkling his nose. ] hand.
[ Zing. That is to say: he's grounded for the time being, confined to mundane tasks and mildly bitter about it, even though it's the most sensible decision for all involved. ]
no subject
[As he takes his first sip it occurs to him what a mighty big leap that was. He could have gotten roughed up in a whole 'nother altercation altogether. The people were testy, friends and neighbors, and walking home in the night hadn't felt safe in over a month.
Better to just let it slide, then. Not like he's too keen on mulling the details over. His end of the story was all squealing anguish and ragged sobs, bits of blood and skin and sanity littered on tiled floors. Things he'd rather leave behind.]
This guard stuff. Did you do something similar back home? [Similar being key here. He's pretty sure lock picking that smooth wasn't a point you'd put on a police resume. He props his chin in his hand, assessing the boy quietly.] Not to pry, but that seems to be the trend, at least with the soldiers and the docs. It's too specialized to get taken up on a casual whim. I'm Rich, by the way. Don't think we ever traded names.
no subject
And Richie follows it up with a second astute observation, reminding him to keep any lies minimal and smooth. ]
S'alright, bruv. [ prying, that is. He takes a swig of his pint and then tips his head to regard Rich. ] We ain't all ancient warriors, obviously — [ One corner of his mouth hooks into an amused smile. Shout out to Diana and the Westerosi crew. ] — but I used to be in the Royal Marines, yeah. [ and that, at least, is true. ]
Eggsy Unwin. [ a pause for jokes and concerns about his name. ] You used to be an actor then, Rich?
[ after that stellar performance for the raging masses and all. ]
no subject
He laughs at the ancient warrior dig. Of the Westerosi he only knows that little redheaded sweetheart, but boy oh boy Diana. Clair too, among others. It was something else to sit and have a conversation with shades of the past, fight against the shift of morals, slang, and expectations. What a wild ride.]
The Marines, fuck! [Richie pulls back with his fingers pulled up to frame the kid as if testing for a cinematic sweep. He squints through the window he's made and intones his findings as Winston Churchill.] It seems so, yes, that this! This is a man who is master of his own fate.
[But soft, now: that is a name that no loving mother should ever bestow on a lad. Even if he is British. They're all a bit quirky, are they not? This is taking it a step too far if you ask him. His mouth drops open to lay in on it.
Then claps shut. It occurs to him at once that poor Eggsy has probably had about eight hundred people ask about his sister, Toastada. He's loathe to be the eight hundred and first. Can't stand to be that unoriginal, even if his whole schtick is imitation.]
Actor? Good God, no. With a face like mine, the only place for me and my devotion to rock-n-roll was in radio. I'm used to hamming it up behind a mike, not a hot poker on a lynching deck. But of course, there's shit-all for similar departments around here. The music's all church organs and the radio is a dream unrealized. I'm stuck bartending for now.
[If he even has a job, still. Being deceased and all. Richie shakes his head and takes an enormous glug of beer. Let's not dwell, shall we?]
no subject
worstbest Mr. Darcy. Perhaps he feels a bit hopeful, too, given that Richie seems well enough to joke.The lack of jabs about his name doesn't go unnoticed, either — another point in Richie's favour. ]
Fuck off. [ he sounds pleased when he says it. ] Total shite that you can't do proper radio anymore, though. [ that's the Unwin version of "sorry for your loss," presumably. Eggsy had felt aimless until he'd found another spying gig with Cree. Losing the position that you'd found best suited your skillset ain't easy. ] Did you bring any music with you at least?
[ What does Eggsy value above all his gadgets? The music collection on his phone. ]
no subject
Isn't it just? [Richie gives a dramatic sigh.] I do have music, thank Christ. I go a little loopy if I can't listen to something, the quiet never sat so well with me. The great gods on Thesa have seen fit to bless this pauper with a turntable and about ten albums. That said I'm only familiar with half of them. The rest were snagged from someone else's time. The, uh...Daft Punk one, that's good. Weird as all get out but good. St. Vincent too, the N.W.A.
How about you? Did the gracious Martians above us see fit to give you some sweet taste of nostalgia?
no subject
Hopefully Richie was serious about wanting to hear him prattle on because, boy, is this ever his favourite topic. ]
N.W.A. are sick, mate! Seems like we've got neighboring tastes. [ Not quite the same, but he imagines there's some overlap. He pulls out his Kingsman-issue iPhone from his pocket, which looks bog-standard for 2014, even in it's ugly yellow and gold case. ] Had my phone on me when the world ended or whatever, so I've got all the best shit.
[ He sneaks a sideways glance at Richie. ]
You're clever, [ said simply, as if he just decided it. ] and a lil bit retro, so you'd probably like Janelle Monáe. [ he slides open the music app and swipes through a few album covers. ] I've got eclectic taste, yeah? But London grime and hip hop are my favourite genres. It's gone a bit mainstream now with Dizzee, Tinchy, and Wiley playing in all the clubs, but it's, like, English fucking rebellion on top of sick dance beats. Reckon I can share my library with you when I get home — provided I'm not off my face.
[ which... isn't unlikely. ]