Your lips a magic world, your sky all hung with jewels (OPEN)

[summertimeblues]

Who: Richie Tozier (summertimeblues) & whoever will have him
What: A swathe has been cut through the ol' friendship rolodex, and the world is in shambles below. Aka old man sits on regretful dock by shitty bay
When: TDM era
Where: Thesa Station, clean up planet-side, Some VR nonsense in Nadril
Warning(s): Will give them if they come up



A) Puff the Tragic Dragon

[He'd had very little to do with any of the proceedings when Ysevrai reared that molding snout. There were times when a regular guy had the stuff to stand up to insurmountable odds: this had not been one of those times. Richie's focus had been on trying to wrangle the fleeing citizens, providing what he could in relief efforts.

But no matter, he's getting his up close and personals with Smaug's great granpappy now. Richie has stood in the glow of the screen for a good five minutes, rent dumb at the mess of ripped flesh and fantasy anatmony spread on widescreen.

He'd gotten itchy after two minutes. It sounded like someone was whispering a moment ago.

And now there's an ant parade skittering over his back. Richie leaps at the sensation and rips the shirt over his head, tossing it away in frenetic alarm. He sets to swatting at his bare back immediately.]

Shit! Fuck! Get 'em off me!!


B) Pacific Rimming

[Never in his life did he imagine he would be crawling into a tin bucket, gripping controllers, and waltzing around like some space invader in the robotic shell of a person. But here he is. Look at him go!

Roughly. Very roughly, but dammit all he wants to pitch in don't he? Bumble he might, but he'll be a damn fine bumbler that did his part. A better part of the day has been spent clearing rubble, but now his sights have been set on returning Olympian statues to their former glory.

Albeit with all the body parts in new places.]

Yes yes, much better! A marked improvement. Even truer to life than usual!

[One knight is playing limbo under the amputated leg of another. The several of them have their heads placed atop their buttocks or two arms sprouting out of their necks. One man is now a horse hybrid. Another has several dogs growing out of his back. The mecha pops its metal hands on its hips, a vision of pride.]

My work here is done.


C) R.I.P. Van Winkle - Multi Option!!

[And of course, there is the necessity of using the downtime to pay respects.

Beverly just never came home. It had only been a few weeks. For less than a month he'd had her company, the relief of a friendly face from home. Then she popped back into hypersleep. He'd gone to see Sandra, wracked with despair and hoping for her calm countenance, her petite fingers to card through his hair. The orb had gone missing from the gang's apartment, and he found it upstairs next. Encased behind a second wall of glass, it was almost too chuckalicious. The best he'd managed was a wry smile.

Steve Trevor texted him about Diana disappearing, and this time for good. Not long after, he joined her. Two peas in a pod. May as well get literal about that. The pair were inseparable on soil, and it seemed they would be so in slumber, too.

Taking a route less one jaunt traveled had him crossing paths with the hall of Vorrutyers. He'd sworn aloud when he'd realized the former emperor-cum-spy had rejoined their ranks ("For fuck's sake Byerly, not you too!") and stalked off in a plume of bitter cigarette fumes.

Trapped on Thesa as they are, he finds himself returning to stasis more often than he might regularly. He can be found at any one of these former friends' feet, feeding the interactive placards helpful tidbits for the good of the general public.]

Beverly Rogan, first pick for whatever monster ails you. Killer with a slingshot and even deadlier with a yo-yo. But it's her gams that might kill a man quickest.

----

Sandra! Oh Sandy, my Sandy. Great kisser, perhaps not one for long walks on the beach. Hell of a backhand, but you'll only get the privilege if you get sucked into her marble dreamscape. Work hard and someday you too shall know the kiss of her palm.

----

Steve Trevor and Diana Prince, the wonder pair. Neither one knew what to do with a pot brownie, but what does that matter when you're prettier than a pair of diamonds in the shape of Liz Taylor's tits? Goddamn, I can't decide if I'm gonna go blind or ralph in jealousy. Save the posing for the camera why don't you? They're good folks though, they have your back no matter the cause.

----

By-By the fly guy. Likes his food no spicier than a ham sandwich. Loves kids! Best babysitter on the block, send them all his way. Responds to "Burby" in a pinch. He might come off cold, but all he really needs is a cuddle and a cup of tea. There's a teddy bear swaddled under all that goatee, just hang in there and see!


D) A Song of Ice and More Ice

[The training modules are best employed in twos. This is a lesson he's taking sore pains in learning as he futzes through trying a hand at a slipshod igloo. The work ain't easy, no siree bob, and if he spots your lumbering, heavy coated shape in the distance he'll flag you down with an S.O.S. style wave.

Visibility is dim, mind you. The snowfall has been incessant, and though it's yet to take nastier turns Richie hardly trusts the damn program to play nice.]

Oi! Over here! You wanna help me with this before we get frostbit to pieces?


E) Joker's Wildcard

[if nothing up here is nabbing at you, slip a pleasant surprise into my inbox! Ask me for a custom prompt! Or pm me and we can hash a lil something something out. Anything goes!]

Comments

A

[impavid]

Hey --

[ John is ambling around the station again when he spots Richie, flailing around in front of the screen. He's back in his panda t-shirt and sweatpants, a loose jacket hanging unzipped. He'd been down on the planet, facing off against the dragon -- and ended up put in a tube by the Natha for his troubles to revive while they just idly stopped time. He's fine now, of course, but there are blotches of paler skin all over his tan where he was healed up.

That, and a general deep-seated unease that comes with having felt yourself die.

He steps closer to Richie, reaches out to try and grab him and hold him still. ]

Hey! Listen, it's getting in your head alright? There's nothing on you.

[ John has experience, at least, with things getting in people's heads. He figures it won't be as easy as saying it once, but maybe he can hold Richie still until he settles. ]

oh cute they can be in an undead club together

[summertimeblues]

[Of course, the first instinct a man has when there's grabby hands coming his way is to wrest free of the reach. Richie pulls back, one arm looped over his own shoulder as he tries to scratch, swat, and bat away the army of insects traipsing over his spine.]

Jo—what do you mean? I can—

[Except that he's patting around, and he can't feel anything under his palm. Over the skin of his back, yes, in spades, but when he twists as best as he can to take a peek, all he sees is a pale and unfettered landscape.

It hardly calms him, though. He looks back to John with renewed clarity (noting the vitiligo patchiness of that California tan, even if he can't be assed to ask what happened just yet), but also renewed horror. The drugs they'd pushed into him during captivity were head-fuckeries, one and all, and the little buggy flesh-nesters that left blooms of rainbow scarring in the wake of their travels through your sinew still gave him the sweats whenever they came to mind.]

Okay. What is it then? Which one is it? Is it the liln?

It's fashionable??? Maybe...

[impavid]

[ The what now.

He winces slightly as Richie pulls away and flails, hands hovering near him but not reaching to touch him again -- just holding them out where he can see in a vague, placatory gesture. ]

Ysevrai. It might be frozen, but even if you look at footage of that thing somehow it still gets in your head. Maybe not as bad as being down on the planet or anything, but enough to mess with you.

[ Enough to give you crawly feelings, a sense of dread, all that uncomfortable stuff. ]

D. Gen body heat meme

[quintessent]

[For royalty, Allura didn’t have many possessions to her name. Even less now as a refugee. Luckily, among those few belongings includes a jumpsuit and armor—both specifically designed to protect against anything an alien planet could throw at her.

So when she approaches Richie, snow crunching under her boots, she looks less like a shivering bundle of coats and scarves and, in fact, looks downright comfortable in her white and pink armor. Sorry for your luck, pal.]

Richie! [Despite her helmet, her voice comes out unimpeded, though she has to shout over the wind. And ah, shelter. She gives his handiwork an unsure once-over, but follows his lead in packing snow and ice onto the sad looking hut. Unfortunately, none of her more dues-ex-machina type powers are any help here.] How long have you been in here?

[summertimeblues]

[How absolutely typical for sci-fi nobility. Richie should have hijacked that mech for warmth. Would have had he known that the VR was going to be this damnably unforgiving, but bygones are bygones and he must deal with the here and the now.]

Why hello, your worship. [Richie huffs and shuffles aside, joining her in surveying the heap of ice blocks.] Truth be told it hasn't been so long, otherwise I would have either figured this shit out or turned into an icicle by now. Do you know anything about this stuff? Surely you've landed on some outlying snowball scooting around the edge of a galaxy sometime.

[quintessent]

[She balks at the question, shaking her head,] Most species try to steer clear of planets like this.

[For obvious reasons. Space travel is vast and dangerous, but she usually had the very basics of sensible equipment or a ship at the very least. Which brings to mind the unfortunate thought that there's a reason the Natha's simulation is giving them so little to work with. That's not a good thought, so, instead, she turns to the problem at hand,]

It's simple. We just need walls and a roof.

[Allura's talking to Richie, but it mostly sounds like she's trying to reassure herself. They're both from advanced species, surely they can figure out the basic building blocks of society like shelter and a fire.]

C, someone's got to do it.

[desistor]

[It's a damn shame he isn't really capable of knocking back a good drink, anymore. After a week like this one, he really could use it. (Or two, or...however many it would take, to take the edge off of it.) Dragon attacks, evacs. A few less friendly faces up here. Boxer's not necessarily talented in the matter of easing up around people very quickly. Considering the common ground and all, though...Sandra had been somewhat of a special case.

So he's. Y'know. In the neighborhood, when he hears Richie extolling the lady's virtues to the echoing halls of stasis. Paces up behind him with the long, gently glowing blade of the Transistor perched against a shoulder as usual. The man, at least, is a sight for sore eyes. Hiya Rich.

Mildly, by way of announcing himself—]

Didn't peg you for the type to kiss and tell.

[That's considered pretty impolite, back where he's from. (No wonder, then, that the telling was followed up with the assessment of her backhand.)]

What a brave soul, stepping up to such daunting tasks

[summertimeblues]

[What he ought to have done was talk to someone first. The idea had been entertained, but even so, he doesn't feel like intruding. No matter how many keys or open invitations he's given or how many he takes up, he knows they made something of a makeshift family. And he can visit all he likes, but he doesn't want to squeeze in on that bubble when it's looking stretched too thin. If they needed to grieve, they could have the time they needed. They were the ones living with her, for shit's sake. He just scooped her off and took her to parts unknown, citing the adage of Three's-a-Crowd and basking in the bliss of her company only when he could have it all to himself.

Really, her time with him and her time with the household were severed by a wall as big as Berlin's. So yes, he opts to keep to himself in his grief and save it for making shit jokes at sleeping bodies. Besides, it's not only Sandy he's lost, and he doesn't want to lay it on so thick when he's put a big enough strain on them all in the first place. What with dying a few months ago. Too much of that shit will wear out anyone's welcome. Nobody loves a drag.

But Boxer, for all his sturdiness, doesn't look half as hot as usual either. Richie goes very quiet for a moment. Not with shame, not quite. There's a thankfulness that doesn't sit comfortably with the traditional meaning of the word. Don't overthink it, you old palooka, just be grateful you still have company.

The chiding does give him pause. They hadn't said anything, didn't expect much of each other except for the relief of letting go, abandoning solitude for the brief times they had together, but that hardly meant they were perfectly discreet. He wouldn't have been shocked if someone cracked a joke about it behind their backs, but that's different than speaking of it plain.]

I'm not. I'm hoping she'll get pissed enough listening to it that she'll pop back out to bounce my skull off the pavement a few times. Unless you've got a better plan?

I'm sure you'll make me regret it

[desistor]

[Come on, Rich. Just because the full house was slightly better suited to her oddly specific situation doesn't mean you can't be sad to see her gone.

He raises his brows and tips his head and his unburdened shoulder in a conceding sort of way. It's a rib more than a recrimination. (If you think he and Red haven't exchanged glances and cracked quiet jokes you'd definitely be wrong. But, y'know. Their standards for privacy aren't necessarily everyone's.) And, y'know. Just good to know some people are still around. Amiably—]

Worth a shot.

[He sounds...okay, if subdued. Leaned on Red when it came around to confirming that the other half of inanimate objects anonymous has gone back into stasis for the forseeable future. Seen worse in worse circumstances and carried on because they were out of choices, otherwise, and stopping to panic about it wasn't about to help. Still, it gets a man to wondering—

(She's sleeping, not dead, and Boxer's pretty good at rolling with the punches, knows logically that this is a thing that can happen. But...it's the first case that's really hit them in the face with it. And in Sandra's case, it feels...particularly unfair. Doubled down with the frankly ridiculous sight of smooth glass stowed behind smooth glass.)

After a deliberate and thoughtful beat to give metaphorical Sandra a chance at retaliation and Rich a chance to realize he's playing along—]

No dice?

hey can i kill richie, B

[persistor]

[ She's not a huge fan of how familiar the sights are, in all honesty — less everything in ruins but more how deserted everything seems, how silent the streets are with the fraction of its citizens up and about ( and cleaning ). It could be worse, she could be the only one left once more, but it could also be ... better.

Things falling to ruin is something she could live without for a long, long time, yet here they are.

Luckily, the awake seem to be business as usual; or as "business as usual" as they can get while cleaning up an entire town square. She's led to the sounds of a familiar ( obnoxious ) voice, loudly proclaiming one thing or another; but once she turns the corner, the only things in view are some awful, hideous statues, and a mecha that's clearly responsible for all of this.

She's a fraction of its height, but she approaches the statue ( and the giant robot ) with little hesitation — hands on her hips for an entirely different reason. If Richie notices the shock of red hair, he'll also notice the way she leans into the statue, as if to study it from up close. Then to look up at the robot, lips twisted into a half-smile.

C'mon, asshole. Might as well have a conversation on the ground. ]

no just suffer like the patsy you are

[summertimeblues]

[Obnoxious my ass, you can't deny the radio-smooth cadence of those golden pipes.

He hadn't expected to run into Red down here. But then, she was a fair bet to show up for pitching in, as long as the profile stayed low. Richie grins, turning away from the masterpiece to square up proper.]

Hold on a mo', mah dea-uh, I'm fixin' to cut loose of this caboose in two shakes of a lamby-lamb's tail.

[Now if he can manage as much without hitting some hitherto unknown bazooka button, he'll be whistling dixie.

Richie brings the mech down to a knee. It would be a fine start if the damn thing weren't so top heavy, or if he had nudged the stance a bit wider. The whole thing gives a tin groan and slowly keels to the left.]

Whoa now!

wow

[persistor]

[ That one earns him a proper reaction — one whole eye roll, with a gentle shake of her head because apparently certain things never change. Even in the wake of a disaster.

Except the good mood seems to plummet a little as he attempts to get out, because being from the 80s means you're really bad at doing basic things like getting out of mechas. There's a hint of hesitation — a frantic weighing of options, of the functions she doesn't have access to and the meager options she's left with — before she takes a step back. Then another. Then another.

All the while the mecha seems to lean too far one way, and Red has no choice but to watch it all happen ( it's not like she could stop it, considering how large it is ). The groaning of metal seems to signal statues to the side collapsing under its creator's weight, but fortunately all of that seems to slow. Slowly, but surely, until everything grinds to a precarious stop, where one wrong move might send everything crashing.

... But at least it looks like things will stay still for the time being, even if everything's tilted at an angle. Rest in pieces, Richie ( Red looks on in horror as everything goes to shit, apparently ). ]

B.

[beatupgrass]

[Let's be real, Rocket's only here because being trapped in the stupid station is bullshit and this might as well be what he does with his time, but it's actually pretty boring work.

Richie seems like he's having fun.

The little raccoonoid is leaning against the control panel yawning while observing Richie's latest masterpiece and with an eyeroll, he stabs at the radio that I'm going to assume these robots have BECAUSE WHAT FUCKING ROBOTS DON'T HAVE RADIOS.]

Hey, Tozier, what's it like knowing that a bunch of gods are gonna murder you?

[summertimeblues]

[Oh! A little radio, how titillating! Richie searches his own panel for the call button, still futzing through the finer controls outside of walk, grab, and drop. When the voice calls over and swells in Rocket's own cockpit it sounds pleased as peaches. It's the closest he'll get to his old job here outside of a phone call.]

Oh swell, Rocket! Once you cozy up to the idea that you're fucked no matter which angle you come at it, it's really quite freeing!

[beatupgrass]

That's one way to think of this shitshow.

[He leans back a bit, taking in the work Richie's put into this.] And I think you're right. It does look better this way. Art's supposed to be subjective, right?

C for Sandra Dee

[almaredemptoris]

[Now that he is kept aboard the station day in and day out, anchored amid the nothingness of space and thus untethered from what duties await him in the frozen world below, Jean Valjean passes ever more hours within the solemn catacombs of the Stasis Unit. The familiar visages of Cosette and poor Fantine receive the greatest share of his attentions, but he makes rounds throughout the vast chamber as if it were a hospital brimming with ailing souls. How many there must be who have none to pray for them, to keep vigil as they sleep - and so Jean Valjean takes this office upon himself. When he descries Richie along the way, he purposes to gently give greeting so as not to startle him. Before he has the chance to speak, however, he hears the name Richie laments, and drawing closer he confirms the news with his own eyes. Then in place of a greeting comes this somber remark:] I had wondered that I hadn't heard from Madame Sandra in some time.

goodbye to sandra deeeeeeee 8'(

[summertimeblues]

[Ultime is an unexpected visitor — Richie hasn't seen him the flesh since he'd woken up from a bad bender in the man's sparse quarters. He had been in contact with Sandra however. That much he knew from the misdirected phone call another few months ago.

His eulogy was meant to be executed in private. Publicly reviewed, true, but that was to be after he'd left the recording and got to continue sniveling in peace. Being in Ultime's pious presence now made him feel like he'd just pissed in a pastor's shoes. Richie stills, his smile treading on nervous now that he's got such imposing company.]

'Fraid it's the worst case scenario, my man. She's napping. It's been more than three days too, so...

[He casts a look back at the orb. It's hardly fair, he thinks bitterly. Not one bit.]

Were you close?

sorry I’m on mobile bc my lappytop charger is garbage

[almaredemptoris]

[Jean Valjean misconstrues the cause for Richie’s nervous smile as a general awkwardness for having been overheard in so private a moment, and shortly he dips his head in apology.]

Forgive me, Monsieur Tozier, for the interruption. [The surname he pronounces in the French manner, regardless of how Richie himself pronounces it.] I was just startled to hear the news...

[His countenance, that book in which can be found clues to a man’s soul, here reveals more than do his words as he looks upon the silenced orb with sadness and something of pity draping his eyes.]

I did not know her nearly long enough to claim closeness, but she was a curious conversation partner.

ice (ice, baby)

[pebblestone]

[ The VR room has become Frederick's second home during his staycation aboard Thesa Station. For a man who lives by the creed of 'preparation is key', ensuring that he's well-prepared for their impending journey into a new land is of utmost importance. And so he spends hours sequestered inside, drilling through each of the practice simulations with the intent of repeating them until he can do everything in his sleep.

His odd hours mean he's usually alone in the room, but today he finds he has company in the snowblown tundra they've found themselves in, and immediately scurries over as quickly as his scarf and sweater wrapped self can manage. (He looks less like a man and more like an overstuffed bear, all things considered.) ]

Of course. Have you built the foundation for the igloo yet?

[ Frederick's no pro himself, but surely they can trade tips and suggestions. ]

[summertimeblues]

[The fellow he's snagged seems the steady sort. Perfect. He's not in the mood for nonsense when the hairs of his balls are dripping with icicles. If the mission wasn't so damned important he might debate the merits of sitting it out wholesale.]

Yeah, I think so, you just do a loop with the ice blocks and keep stacking, right? [He pats at the base he's started with, happy to see it not crumbling but also dismayed at the lack of progress.] This is damn near cruel. One of my best friends is a genius architect. Of course he's off sleeping in the pods and they send the DJ to go build shelter.

[pebblestone]

[ The DJ? The demonic janitor? No, he doesn't look very demonic, though maybe a little raggedly.

He makes a note to ask later, after they've constructed some sort of viable shelter. ]

Yes, but make sure to pack snow between any gaps, else the wind will still find its way in.

[ And then they'll both still freeze and what'll be the point of all their hard work?

Speaking of work, Frederick crouches down and proceeds to form his own poorly shaped snow bricks to use as building blocks for this igloo. Can't leave this poor fellow to do all the work. ]

But I'm sure that by the time you finish constructing this, you'll be able to hold your own against this friend of yours, despite being a [ what was it again ] "dee-jay".

[ It's obvious he has no idea what those letters mean. ]

intro log for oldbies

[tricksune]

[ He wouldn't say that Nadril is nostalgic, or much like home. Maybe like Hokkaido with its ice fineries and buildings, but he'd never been that far north. It's all new, uncharted territory.

But at the same time, it's pocked with familiar spaces, little divets of another reality. Central is aptly and obviously named, being the center of it all, the richest area of goods from beyond the stars.

...Which isn't always as glamorous as it sounds. Yusuke stops in his tracks for a moment. ]

—Goodness.

[ He picks up one of the many stashed 'research' items, the old plastic yellowed with age, none of the sleek, futuristic metal in the Station or the rudimentary tech on the ground that they've encountered so far. ]

I hadn't thought I'd see anything like this again.

you're an oldbie

[summertimeblues]

[Nostalgic doesn't quite capture the creep factor of walking through a ghost town for modern marvels. They should have been modern, should have been futuristic, yet here they are scattered about like plastic straws and old Gilettes.

It's hypnotic though. Richie's picking through the toss-aways of galaxies past his own, this time with the relative safety of knowing they'll be long past their expiration dates. And it's machinery. Less likely to be hexed by vengeful dragon priests or whatever the fuck else is still frozen out there in the cold.

The kid chimes in as Richie sets down a metallic sphere with a dent in the crown, purpose unknown. The relic he's picked up is something familiar.]

Hang on, now, let me see that! [He hops over, careful of his footing as he joins the taller boy. (How galling.) Richie pulls a low whistle at the sight, taking it out of Yusuke's hands and turning it around. Old ghosts indeed.] Well bend me over and fuck me sideways, who brought the Xerox?

There's no place like

[priorly]

[Refugees are offered free lodging in a large, crystalline building crafted from ice. Despite the coarse building material, the ice is unmelting and surprisingly well-insulated, and the beds are as warm and cozy. The rooms are, however, small. The sleeping quarters house two people, and are some cross between an igloo and a capsule hotel.]

[A large, crystalline building sounds far more impressive than the reality, which feels more like a high-rise for Eskimo. It's certainly not built to Prior's aesthetic, although time and rent prices in the Chelsea area have shown that he can do a lot with very little.

Still. Ice, really. And when he'd taken Richie's offer of sharing a place, he hadn't had living quarters quite this close in mind. At least there are two beds, as much like a conservative housewife as that makes him feel.

So far this evening he's picked a fight with the bathroom mirror's offensively heteronormative suggestion that he get a haircut, and failed to fit even the few clothes he'd brought down to the planet into his side of the closet. The whole affair isn't leaving him in the brightest of moods, although at least now he's settling in for the night, sitting on the edge of the bed draped in a lavender, Wyver-silk robe, trying to self-soothe with the careful application of cold cream to his face.

This is not to say there's nothing to complain about, or that he doesn't start as soon as Richie makes it out of the bathroom.]

I've tried to close my eyes and pretend to be overwintering at Aspen but it won't work. This feels more like sharing a dorm room at Alaska State.

[He reaches for a glass on the night stand and scowls as a robotic butler chimes in with Your medication is zero zero seven minutes overdue. Please remember to take your pills, with a large glass of water.]

And could I get a little bodily autonomy here? I know my routine.

There's no business like

[summertimeblues]

[Richie's impressions have been very much the same. He'd made the offer with his Olympian pad in mind, but then came the hike to Nadril and he'd wrung his boney old hands over the idea of almost everybody roughing it out in the Winter Wonderland, and his proposition to Prior floated to the forefront once more. Batting it back down again only seemed callous once the notion had resurfaced, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, and he'd reached out and tugged the poor bastard in before he could think much better of it.

Well, consider it a trial run then. If they didn't drive one another batty when they had to play leapfrog to make it out the door, then they never would.

Richie's finishing the last yank on his trouser buckle when Prior points out the obvious. He tuts, kicking the restroom door closed with his heel and dropping onto his own bunk with a heavy sigh.]

Or road tripping at a motel with no radiator.

[There is a distinct sniff from their mirror, who has not much respect for either guest.]

Hardly a need for one my dear, when you keep playing chimney at all hours.

Oh stuff it, you drab slab! [Richie hurls a cushion at the offender. It gives a shocked little "Ah!" and falls silent. He'd been taking his smokes outside thank you very much, but the remains stayed on his breath and he hasn't heard the end of it since they'd checked in.] What say you we vamoose and build our own igloo? One free of judging eyes and all this Big Brother hooey?