( on the run long enough, you learn about boltholes. doesn't matter where he is, a city's just a city now. he doesn't give a shit about demarcation lines or the politics of it all. american versus whoever's got the most oil this week. frank always has a contingency plan. and when that one fails, he's got another. and when that one fails he's got his fucking will, and it's worked out, you know? so far it's worked out.
but sometimes you're busted up and hurting and your feet take a familiar path that has nothing to do with any of that shit. hell's kitchen. knows it like the back of his hand. still, after all this time.
he ends up on red's couch. probably getting blood all over it. drinking one of his hoity-toity craft beers out of the fridge. easy to lose himself in the tick of the clock. it passes, just like that. drumbeats. the roar of his pulse in his ears. he thinks if he falls asleep he'll be lucky to wake up.
red piles in around 0300. smelling like blood and sweat and the filth of the street, and frank can hear the labored breath that sounds like it might be broken ribs. masochist, thy name is murdock.
matt knew he was here. probably heard him breathing all the way out in the hall and decided to come in anyway. well, fuck it. frank puts his feet up on the coffee table. boots on. laces undone on one side. he thinks blood ran down the inside of his pant leg and is tacky against the scholl's insert under his heel. )
You look like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag, Red.
[ The surprise is Frank's presence at all, unexpected but unmistakable.
He'd smelled the thick metal of blood and the familiar notes of Frank's scent when he'd hit the roof. The rat-a-tat of Frank's heart is a homing beacon, heralding Matt's painful descent. It's just a little bit funny; Matt's not the only one who had a bad night. Matt tries to think back and consider the cacophony of his own night, to parse whether there was something more to it that should have tipped him off to an added element. If Frank was getting into trouble, then it had been contained.
So far, at least.
The inevitable wave of exhaustion hangs over him, a combination of questions Matt doesn't want to ask and the pain nipping at his heels, waiting for the moment Matt slows down to take a breath. He cracks his helmet as he crosses the room, inhaling deeply before letting it fall to the coffee table. His movements are purposeful, calibrated to take new injuries into account and avoid aggravating them anymore than necessary. ]
Nice to see you too.
[ In a manner of speaking. ]
Can I get you some bandages to go with my beer?
[ The least complicated thing Frank could want is a patch job. Matt can feel the pain creeping in around the edges of his own awareness, separating out into individual aches, but his attention stays narrowed down to Frank's presence: the even flow of his breathing, the slosh of beer, the gun oil and blood. It'll linger for weeks, even after Frank's moved on. ]
( he lifts the beer in an ironic salute. nice to see you is pushing it, but red's one of the very few people that's only halfway up his shitlist instead of crowning the top, so.
(in another life, that would've been enough to say he likes him. frank's not sure he likes anyone any more. now, there's just a handful of people he wouldn't kill.) )
I don't know, Red, 'can' you?
( catholic humor. he spent more time around nuns than he wanted to, forever getting told to say, may i do whatever. he figures murdock'll pick up on it. then, without waiting for him to reply he carries on, )
Believe it or not, I was about to use your shower.
( steal some clothes. red's shorter and leaner than him, but he's probably got something he can crawl into. he tosses off the rest of that beer and sets the empty bottle down as he stands up. )
I'm thinkin'... you probably need patching up about as much as I do anyway. You gimme five minutes and I'll show you how the Marines do it.
( funny guy, frank. he's in a good mood, despite the blood, despite the pain. he pats matt on the chest as he passes him (as jostles go, maybe it's a little rougher than it needs to be) and heads towards the bathroom. )
[ The answering laugh stretches, barked as much in response to the invocation of nuns serenely repeating that same correction as to Frank's assertion as to just how at home he planned to make himself.
Does he object? Matt has a split second to consider between the sound of Frank's feet hitting the floor and the light resonant note of the empty bottle being set down. The scent of blood in the air shifts slightly as Frank's movement disturbs his injuries. He'd like to say that the single reason for his lack of protest, and not the simple comfort of shared injuries, of not having to embark on the slow process of bandaging and stitching himself back together on his own.
The hand on his chest pulls a second laugh from him, breaking on a pained wheeze. ]
The first aide kit is under the sink, [ Matt informs Frank's retreating back.
As the sound of rushing water rises, Matt peels the suit off. The armor goes into it's box, piece by piece. The sound of the city has receded, eclipsed by Frank. By the time Frank emerges, Matt has opened a two beers, dredged up aspirin for the headache he doesn't have yet but likely will before the night is over. ]
( the shower's quick and hot. it hits all his injuries in all the wrong ways, blood sluices off his skin and swirls down the drain. ain't all his. cops ever raid murdock's apartment their forensics team is going to have a field day with the dna cocktail of him and half a dozen mooks that needed killing.
he allows himself the luxury of a minute with his head pressed to the tile, letting his breathing even out.
then he gets out. scrubs himself down. ruins a towel. matt's question makes him snort.
dryly, )
I can't just miss your pretty face?
( he's got a towel slung low around his hips. even that's a concession to matt's probable modesty, because frank truly does not give a shit. you spend enough time in a barracks with forty other guys and only one blue shitbox between the lot of you and you learn real quick not to give a fuck who likes to let it all hang out. he picks up the beer on his way past. )
Some bullshit with a drug kingpin. Selling dope laced with fentanyl to fucking highschool kids. Took out one of his squads. You gonna lecture me about morality, Red, or have you given up that ghost?
[ Trying to think back over the cacophony of the city, it's impossible to try and pick out one particular set of gunshots to assign to Frank. Is it better or worse to know that at least one incident wasn't something that had gone unattended because Matt can only be in one place at a time, and can only move so quickly from one trouble to the next?
There isn't an answer in the moment. He might feel differently in the light of day. But in the moment he's tired enough to let the analysis fall by the wayside as he eases down to sit on the edge of the couch. ]
Give me ten minutes for the aspirin to kick in.
[ Surely Frank knows the argument. Matt knows the argument, the assertion he should snap out: don't kill anyone in my city. It's the very least. ]
You could have left the name with me.
[ As if they have the type of relationship that lends itself to passing off troubles. That's not how Frank deals with things.
Matt can still smell the gun oil on Frank, even beneath the borrowed soap. His head turns, tracking Frank's movements as he gingerly leans forward to lift his own beer as he continues— ]
[ It's about the time that Ephemera tastes blood in his mouth and skin between his teeth that he starts thinking maybe, maybe this is going a bit too far. But that's as vague thought, distant and half-formed, and easy to ignore. The fucker he's going against is good—better than anyone he's gone up against lately except maybe Angela—and by the time Ephemera got flipped onto his back, they're both snarling at each other and the moment's shifted from a show of skill to something very close to real. And like any fight, any real engagement, it's to the fucking death and that makes the world very small, and very simple. The guy, whose name Ephemera doesn't know, fights with the same brutality his sergeant used to display. Every move expert and precise, aiming to end the moment decisively. Only difference is this fucker doesn't use knives, and Chica is long dead. They fight and it's hard and interesting and even a little fun, until one moment it suddenly isn't.
Until one moment it's suddenly real.
Ephemera isn't quite sure when it changed. Maybe when he got tossed to the ground and the man followed him all the way down, going hard for his good eye. Maybe when he grabbed the man's shoulder and bit him, sinking his teeth it and screaming out of sheer fucking adrenaline.
There's blood in his teeth, now. And then the fucker grabs him by the arm, and twists.
There's an audible crunch. A distinctive, and sudden, flash of pain. Broken bone. It would end most fights. Probably should. He's got no armor-lock to stabilize the injury, no way to brace. And of course most people think a blow like that would end the fight. Most people would relax a little upon doing it.
Ephemera laughs and laughs and laughs, and lunges right for the man's throat. Doesn't even slow down.
Well. Not until somebody clocks him with a taser, and then the world goes a little strange for a moment.
He comes to flat on his back, glaring up at the ceiling. There's a medic prodding him, taser still in hand. ]
( it's an echoing drumbeat. fists against flesh. the distant tattoo of an old world, and frank lets it slip under his skin. keeps time with his heart. a thousand cacophonies build and swell and scream. they circle each other like sharks, and strike. it's been a long time since he fought somebody on equal footing. red, maybe.
and then his vision blacks out at the edges and pain crawls up his shoulder and the world falls away and he stops fighting like a fucking prize dog for an audience and instead he fights like he means to hurt this motherfucker until he stops fighting back —
and then it's over, and his head is ringing and he feels the sharp electric bite of a taser thrumming along his nerves. he coughs some, rolls over onto his side. up onto one elbow. up onto his knees.
but the fight's gone out of him, more or less. and this guy is just another poor bastard that got in his way. he huffs out something like a laugh and then, teeth red to the gums, he says, )
Anybody ever tell you you hit like a fuckin' girl?
( maybe it's framed like an insult, but it isn't one. he's been hit by lots of badass women. he gets up, holds out a hand. he's wearing gloves. no contact. )
[ Ephemera coughs. Pushes himself upright with his good arm and spits on the ground, baring his teeth. It doesn't feel like he's lost any this round. Small favors. But there's blood in the air still, and skin between his teeth. The scars pull the expression in unpleasant directions, a rictus he used to deploy with effect in prison. But he laughs, too, and the sound is warmer than before. None of the wild cackling of earlier. There's a moment of pure, easy joy in the expression. ]
Yeah. The woman who trained me.
[ Oh, she'd be proud to see the damage he'd wrought in her name. Ephemera takes the offered hand and hauls himself up. Gloves, smart. His own hands are carefully wrapped and unlike a lot of the other fights, he always fights in long sleeves, but one of these days he needs to take the plunge. Find a pair of gloves that doesn't offend him for their lack of armor. ]
( he traces the trail to bogotá. cocaine coming in stateside through a fucking tourism racket of all things, catering to rich white americans with private yachts and too much money to burn. it's an all-over problem.
he thinks at first maybe the guy's just a foreigner that runs his mouth and gets into his fair share of bar fights. but frank catches him passing off a brown package to a dark-haired woman that's roughly the size of a key. that's what really gets his attention, though not anywhere half as much as the fact a shoreline guy he recognizes from the s-a-fucking-s back in afghanistan going into a dark alley again and this guy — this fucking guy coming out the other side all furtive and guilty and none the worse for wear. frank watches the whole thing go down through a scope and he realizes if somebody's taking out hired muscle without breaking a sweat, that's the guy he wants to talk to.
well.
'talk'.
like he bothers with any of that any more.
he tails him back to the shitty hotel he's got in the south side of the city. drug dive where you're lucky if all you wake up with's a columbian necktie. settles in at the adjacent bar. watching. always watching. the guy has a brief, animated talk with an older guy in a hawaiian shirt that pretty much has bay of pigs stamped all over him. he catches something about some place called tierradentro and someone (something?) called a mohán. frank watches them in the fractal reflection of a glass of beer, murky and yellow like the pisswater swill they serve here.
he waits until the old guy peels off, and when the younger one gets up frank gives him a head start. why not, right? then he pays out his tab and follows after him. the guy wasn't drinking, so he'll be hard to take off-guard, but frank, well. he's got his ways.
the mark's a sturdy guy. solid muscle, bitch to move. one-ninety if he's a fucking ounce. boxer's fractures, healed, redone. healed again. bruised knuckles. but nobody likes the butt of a gun to the back of the head.
the how of it doesn't really matter. a few hours later and frank's got the guy in a warehouse. he doesn't have a lot of his usual hit, but he's got a claw hammer and a knife and his own bloodied fists and that's been good enough for plenty. he pulls a chair up in front of the guy and starts to sharpen his m9. the slow, torturous scrape against the whetstone is like nails on a chalkboard. )
[ There's an explanation for everything. The supernatural isn't real so much as it is a misguided interpretation of reality, some fringe science bullshit that can more or less explain why and where and how things have gone wrong. The biochemical disaster in El Dorado, the thick, viscous sap dripping from the trees in Shambhala - isolated agents with really unfortunate consequences that decimated equally isolated communities.
The Mohán is no different. It's an old story Nate used to hear growing up in these parts: spirits that would haunt the jungles and the quiet edges of town, hairy men who - like satyrs - would kidnap and rape young women. It had different forms, a shambling animal or a great cat, an alligator or a bear. But it always had a wide, terrifying smile.
A wive's tale to keep girls from wandering away by themselves, to keep children inside at night, but one that seems to be gaining traction with increasing frequency in such a way that the normal superstitions seem to be overwhelmed by it. Actual sightings in Inza, people who are genuinely afraid of what might be in the dense jungle around Tierradentro, a decrease in tourism for the strangeness of it. It's something else, something the caretakers of the site uncovered, something that doesn't want to be found.
He trades information with Marta, reconnoiters with Sully, makes a game plan. The rogue Shoreline agents wandering around town present a mild problem but nothing he thinks they can't handle if it comes down to it. They'll rent a car, head out two days from now when the park is closed. keep Ross' goons in the periphery if they have to. Simple, pat, and easy.
As per his usual, Nate's attention to relevant details barred anything on the edges from his mind, which meant he didn't see the assault until it was inches away.
He comes to groggily, a searing headache pulsing at the back of his skull, tongue thick and sluggish. Neck bent he lifts his head in spite of the pounding, forehead scrumpling as the light overhead stabs into his eyeballs like fucking knives and a scratching sound oppresses his eardrums. ]
Ah, Jesus-
[ Nate mutters under his breath, lolling back and wincing as his neck pops. His shoulders ache, chest tight from maintaining a weird position long-term, and the prickling in his left hand makes him think it's falling asleep. Turning slightly he squints at his side and realizes his arms are tied behind his back.
Not a great start.
It takes him a good fifteen seconds to acknowledge that someone is sitting in front of him, partly due to the wake-up call and partly out of mild spite for the situation. There's a quiet sigh of resignation huffed out of his nose, muted only by a groan of discomfort as he shifts and his head throbs again. When he finally looks at the guy in the chair across from him he almost laughs. That persistent scraping sound is a knife dragging a stone, both held in scarred and meaty-looking fists attached to someone who who seems like they engage in recreational kidnapping on a regular basis. Nate raises his eyebrows. ]
Well, this isn't the continental breakfast I was promised.
[ Brooklyn is temporary. That's not an ultimatum, it's something he knows the moment they choose the apartment. It's small — enough space for him and a dog, and Steve and Sam take the place downstairs. Steve goes with him to the shelter and they pick out Luna, to prowl around the neighbourhood with. New York's a big place. There usually aren't corners for things to hide from him, not that he's hunting, the instinct exists to be called upon, but no longer drives him mercilessly forward. ]
[ He likes to go for long walks, long drives, secure in the knowledge that even his temporary place is guarded by more hands than his own. Running into trouble feels kind of relaxing whether it involves Jones or the kid, the one who worms his way in slick as anything — only James finds that joke funny, given the kid's a sticky little guy, hard to shake. James doesn't want to shake him. Doesn't want to shake off a lot of the stuff, even if it takes a while to find its place. ]
[ It's early — up for once before the other two go out on their jogging route. Luna wants out, and there's a park — not nearby, but distance doesn't matter that much to James. There and back in time to join the other two for after-jog coffee. He might even beat them to the food truck. It's a good idea, and it drifts along with the other thoughts in his mind. Luna tugs them both forward all the way to the park, through the trees as the sun peers over the horizon, and finally she flops near a bench, overlooking a pond. There's already a guy there, dark clothes, and from the smell he might have been out here a while. James just nods, taking the place at the very end of the bench, unclipping the leash. ]
[Jaskier knows he shouldn’t sing in places like this.
He’s not afraid for himself- he’s very fast when he has to be, and he’s got experience charming (or frustrating, if that option doesn’t work) people enough that they leave him alone most of the time. Still, as much as he tries, as much as he does his best to hide his clothes and mess his hair and basically fall into every stereotype he’s heard of… his mannerisms, his accent, basically everything about him screams ‘out of place’ to anyone who’s looking. He may have been really damn bad at being old money, but he was still raised in it and that’s not something he can just shake away as much as he wishes to.
And oh how he wishes to. No one takes a guitarist seriously in a dirty, smelly, and (most annoyingly) loud place like this, where everyone seems to just be waiting for their next fight, everyone ready to jump at each other’s throats. But those are, sadly, the only places he can get a jig at nowadays and he did not come all the way to America, all the way to New York just to turn away at the first hurdle, to run back and hide in the comfort of a rich family. So singing he does, even if no one listens, even if they hate every second of it and he gets more insults than tips. He has to start somewhere, or so everyone seems to say, and so he plucks away at his guitar, singing songs about adventures he will never have, about dreams that always seem out of his reach and about people that he loved very, very much for a very, very short time.
He’s happy to grab the (meager) tips once he’s done, but the thing is, he’s been around for long enough now that he knows most of the regulars. So the tall, angry man with an aura that screams ‘get the fuck away from me’ catches his attention. And, true to his fashion, he absolutely ignores that aura and walks right towards him. The man also screams ‘adventure’, and Jaskier has never been good at ignoring the call towards that.]
So? [He takes a seat next to him.] What was your opinion? You don’t look like anyone who’s ever heard me sing before.
You call that singing? I thought someone was skinning a cat.
( he doesn't miss a beat in saying it. he's had his share of obnoxious hanger-ons, of which lieberman is only the latest in a long list. they're sitting on a bench in central park, frank's got a bag of seeds for the birds. old lady in 502 broke her hip and worried that her favorite duck with a gimped up leg wouldn't get his share. so here he is. feeding the fucking ducks, listening to this idiot yahoo belt out a bad taylor swift ripoff in the park. )
[Jaskier lets out a sound- half laugh, half stammer. He isn't sure what he was expecting from the angry looking man but that was definitely not it. He places a hand on his chest, the very picture of OFFENDED. It actually takes him a second to reply, and when he does all he comes up with is:]
The cat should be so lucky!
[...Yeah.]
I'll let you know plenty of people enjoy my songs just fine.
[He needs to be at least level 5 to unlock Jaskier's backstory, thank you very much. That, or his accent makes it obvious and he just likes to make himself interesting- your pick.]
I'm absolutely not the most interesting one in this conversation, scary-man-somehow-feeding-the-duck. So what's your story?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
do whatever, i'm up for it.
Date: 2020-02-17 12:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-02-17 05:30 am (UTC)but sometimes you're busted up and hurting and your feet take a familiar path that has nothing to do with any of that shit. hell's kitchen. knows it like the back of his hand. still, after all this time.
he ends up on red's couch. probably getting blood all over it. drinking one of his hoity-toity craft beers out of the fridge. easy to lose himself in the tick of the clock. it passes, just like that. drumbeats. the roar of his pulse in his ears. he thinks if he falls asleep he'll be lucky to wake up.
red piles in around 0300. smelling like blood and sweat and the filth of the street, and frank can hear the labored breath that sounds like it might be broken ribs. masochist, thy name is murdock.
matt knew he was here. probably heard him breathing all the way out in the hall and decided to come in anyway. well, fuck it. frank puts his feet up on the coffee table. boots on. laces undone on one side. he thinks blood ran down the inside of his pant leg and is tacky against the scholl's insert under his heel. )
You look like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag, Red.
no subject
Date: 2020-02-17 06:20 am (UTC)He'd smelled the thick metal of blood and the familiar notes of Frank's scent when he'd hit the roof. The rat-a-tat of Frank's heart is a homing beacon, heralding Matt's painful descent. It's just a little bit funny; Matt's not the only one who had a bad night. Matt tries to think back and consider the cacophony of his own night, to parse whether there was something more to it that should have tipped him off to an added element. If Frank was getting into trouble, then it had been contained.
So far, at least.
The inevitable wave of exhaustion hangs over him, a combination of questions Matt doesn't want to ask and the pain nipping at his heels, waiting for the moment Matt slows down to take a breath. He cracks his helmet as he crosses the room, inhaling deeply before letting it fall to the coffee table. His movements are purposeful, calibrated to take new injuries into account and avoid aggravating them anymore than necessary. ]
Nice to see you too.
[ In a manner of speaking. ]
Can I get you some bandages to go with my beer?
[ The least complicated thing Frank could want is a patch job. Matt can feel the pain creeping in around the edges of his own awareness, separating out into individual aches, but his attention stays narrowed down to Frank's presence: the even flow of his breathing, the slosh of beer, the gun oil and blood. It'll linger for weeks, even after Frank's moved on. ]
no subject
Date: 2020-02-20 08:21 pm (UTC)(in another life, that would've been enough to say he likes him. frank's not sure he likes anyone any more. now, there's just a handful of people he wouldn't kill.) )
I don't know, Red, 'can' you?
( catholic humor. he spent more time around nuns than he wanted to, forever getting told to say, may i do whatever. he figures murdock'll pick up on it. then, without waiting for him to reply he carries on, )
Believe it or not, I was about to use your shower.
( steal some clothes. red's shorter and leaner than him, but he's probably got something he can crawl into. he tosses off the rest of that beer and sets the empty bottle down as he stands up. )
I'm thinkin'... you probably need patching up about as much as I do anyway. You gimme five minutes and I'll show you how the Marines do it.
( funny guy, frank. he's in a good mood, despite the blood, despite the pain. he pats matt on the chest as he passes him (as jostles go, maybe it's a little rougher than it needs to be) and heads towards the bathroom. )
no subject
Date: 2020-02-21 12:27 am (UTC)Does he object? Matt has a split second to consider between the sound of Frank's feet hitting the floor and the light resonant note of the empty bottle being set down. The scent of blood in the air shifts slightly as Frank's movement disturbs his injuries. He'd like to say that the single reason for his lack of protest, and not the simple comfort of shared injuries, of not having to embark on the slow process of bandaging and stitching himself back together on his own.
The hand on his chest pulls a second laugh from him, breaking on a pained wheeze. ]
The first aide kit is under the sink, [ Matt informs Frank's retreating back.
As the sound of rushing water rises, Matt peels the suit off. The armor goes into it's box, piece by piece. The sound of the city has receded, eclipsed by Frank. By the time Frank emerges, Matt has opened a two beers, dredged up aspirin for the headache he doesn't have yet but likely will before the night is over. ]
Should I ask what brings you to town?
[ What, who. Comes to the same thing. ]
I assume it wasn't a social call.
no subject
Date: 2020-02-25 04:54 am (UTC)he allows himself the luxury of a minute with his head pressed to the tile, letting his breathing even out.
then he gets out. scrubs himself down. ruins a towel. matt's question makes him snort.
dryly, )
I can't just miss your pretty face?
( he's got a towel slung low around his hips. even that's a concession to matt's probable modesty, because frank truly does not give a shit. you spend enough time in a barracks with forty other guys and only one blue shitbox between the lot of you and you learn real quick not to give a fuck who likes to let it all hang out. he picks up the beer on his way past. )
Some bullshit with a drug kingpin. Selling dope laced with fentanyl to fucking highschool kids. Took out one of his squads. You gonna lecture me about morality, Red, or have you given up that ghost?
no subject
Date: 2020-03-26 07:58 pm (UTC)There isn't an answer in the moment. He might feel differently in the light of day. But in the moment he's tired enough to let the analysis fall by the wayside as he eases down to sit on the edge of the couch. ]
Give me ten minutes for the aspirin to kick in.
[ Surely Frank knows the argument. Matt knows the argument, the assertion he should snap out: don't kill anyone in my city. It's the very least. ]
You could have left the name with me.
[ As if they have the type of relationship that lends itself to passing off troubles. That's not how Frank deals with things.
Matt can still smell the gun oil on Frank, even beneath the borrowed soap. His head turns, tracking Frank's movements as he gingerly leans forward to lift his own beer as he continues— ]
It'd have saved you a trip.
fight club
Date: 2020-02-17 01:49 am (UTC)Until one moment it's suddenly real.
Ephemera isn't quite sure when it changed. Maybe when he got tossed to the ground and the man followed him all the way down, going hard for his good eye. Maybe when he grabbed the man's shoulder and bit him, sinking his teeth it and screaming out of sheer fucking adrenaline.
There's blood in his teeth, now. And then the fucker grabs him by the arm, and twists.
There's an audible crunch. A distinctive, and sudden, flash of pain. Broken bone. It would end most fights. Probably should. He's got no armor-lock to stabilize the injury, no way to brace. And of course most people think a blow like that would end the fight. Most people would relax a little upon doing it.
Ephemera laughs and laughs and laughs, and lunges right for the man's throat. Doesn't even slow down.
Well. Not until somebody clocks him with a taser, and then the world goes a little strange for a moment.
He comes to flat on his back, glaring up at the ceiling. There's a medic prodding him, taser still in hand. ]
Chill, psych. You're done. Both of you.
no subject
Date: 2020-02-20 03:20 am (UTC)and then his vision blacks out at the edges and pain crawls up his shoulder and the world falls away and he stops fighting like a fucking prize dog for an audience and instead he fights like he means to hurt this motherfucker until he stops fighting back —
and then it's over, and his head is ringing and he feels the sharp electric bite of a taser thrumming along his nerves. he coughs some, rolls over onto his side. up onto one elbow. up onto his knees.
but the fight's gone out of him, more or less. and this guy is just another poor bastard that got in his way. he huffs out something like a laugh and then, teeth red to the gums, he says, )
Anybody ever tell you you hit like a fuckin' girl?
( maybe it's framed like an insult, but it isn't one. he's been hit by lots of badass women. he gets up, holds out a hand. he's wearing gloves. no contact. )
no subject
Date: 2020-02-20 04:36 am (UTC)Yeah. The woman who trained me.
[ Oh, she'd be proud to see the damage he'd wrought in her name. Ephemera takes the offered hand and hauls himself up. Gloves, smart. His own hands are carefully wrapped and unlike a lot of the other fights, he always fights in long sleeves, but one of these days he needs to take the plunge. Find a pair of gloves that doesn't offend him for their lack of armor. ]
You're not bad, motherfucker.
[ Ephemera bares his teeth. ]
You want a drink? I'm getting drunk.
@nonscriptum
Date: 2020-02-17 02:24 am (UTC)he thinks at first maybe the guy's just a foreigner that runs his mouth and gets into his fair share of bar fights. but frank catches him passing off a brown package to a dark-haired woman that's roughly the size of a key. that's what really gets his attention, though not anywhere half as much as the fact a shoreline guy he recognizes from the s-a-fucking-s back in afghanistan going into a dark alley again and this guy — this fucking guy coming out the other side all furtive and guilty and none the worse for wear. frank watches the whole thing go down through a scope and he realizes if somebody's taking out hired muscle without breaking a sweat, that's the guy he wants to talk to.
well.
'talk'.
like he bothers with any of that any more.
he tails him back to the shitty hotel he's got in the south side of the city. drug dive where you're lucky if all you wake up with's a columbian necktie. settles in at the adjacent bar. watching. always watching. the guy has a brief, animated talk with an older guy in a hawaiian shirt that pretty much has bay of pigs stamped all over him. he catches something about some place called tierradentro and someone (something?) called a mohán. frank watches them in the fractal reflection of a glass of beer, murky and yellow like the pisswater swill they serve here.
he waits until the old guy peels off, and when the younger one gets up frank gives him a head start. why not, right? then he pays out his tab and follows after him. the guy wasn't drinking, so he'll be hard to take off-guard, but frank, well. he's got his ways.
the mark's a sturdy guy. solid muscle, bitch to move. one-ninety if he's a fucking ounce. boxer's fractures, healed, redone. healed again. bruised knuckles. but nobody likes the butt of a gun to the back of the head.
the how of it doesn't really matter. a few hours later and frank's got the guy in a warehouse. he doesn't have a lot of his usual hit, but he's got a claw hammer and a knife and his own bloodied fists and that's been good enough for plenty. he pulls a chair up in front of the guy and starts to sharpen his m9. the slow, torturous scrape against the whetstone is like nails on a chalkboard. )
no subject
Date: 2020-02-19 04:57 pm (UTC)The Mohán is no different. It's an old story Nate used to hear growing up in these parts: spirits that would haunt the jungles and the quiet edges of town, hairy men who - like satyrs - would kidnap and rape young women. It had different forms, a shambling animal or a great cat, an alligator or a bear. But it always had a wide, terrifying smile.
A wive's tale to keep girls from wandering away by themselves, to keep children inside at night, but one that seems to be gaining traction with increasing frequency in such a way that the normal superstitions seem to be overwhelmed by it. Actual sightings in Inza, people who are genuinely afraid of what might be in the dense jungle around Tierradentro, a decrease in tourism for the strangeness of it. It's something else, something the caretakers of the site uncovered, something that doesn't want to be found.
He trades information with Marta, reconnoiters with Sully, makes a game plan. The rogue Shoreline agents wandering around town present a mild problem but nothing he thinks they can't handle if it comes down to it. They'll rent a car, head out two days from now when the park is closed. keep Ross' goons in the periphery if they have to. Simple, pat, and easy.
As per his usual, Nate's attention to relevant details barred anything on the edges from his mind, which meant he didn't see the assault until it was inches away.
He comes to groggily, a searing headache pulsing at the back of his skull, tongue thick and sluggish. Neck bent he lifts his head in spite of the pounding, forehead scrumpling as the light overhead stabs into his eyeballs like fucking knives and a scratching sound oppresses his eardrums. ]
Ah, Jesus-
[ Nate mutters under his breath, lolling back and wincing as his neck pops. His shoulders ache, chest tight from maintaining a weird position long-term, and the prickling in his left hand makes him think it's falling asleep. Turning slightly he squints at his side and realizes his arms are tied behind his back.
Not a great start.
It takes him a good fifteen seconds to acknowledge that someone is sitting in front of him, partly due to the wake-up call and partly out of mild spite for the situation. There's a quiet sigh of resignation huffed out of his nose, muted only by a groan of discomfort as he shifts and his head throbs again. When he finally looks at the guy in the chair across from him he almost laughs. That persistent scraping sound is a knife dragging a stone, both held in scarred and meaty-looking fists attached to someone who who seems like they engage in recreational kidnapping on a regular basis. Nate raises his eyebrows. ]
Well, this isn't the continental breakfast I was promised.
ignores half the movies
Date: 2020-02-20 03:04 pm (UTC)[ He likes to go for long walks, long drives, secure in the knowledge that even his temporary place is guarded by more hands than his own. Running into trouble feels kind of relaxing whether it involves Jones or the kid, the one who worms his way in slick as anything — only James finds that joke funny, given the kid's a sticky little guy, hard to shake. James doesn't want to shake him. Doesn't want to shake off a lot of the stuff, even if it takes a while to find its place. ]
[ It's early — up for once before the other two go out on their jogging route. Luna wants out, and there's a park — not nearby, but distance doesn't matter that much to James. There and back in time to join the other two for after-jog coffee. He might even beat them to the food truck. It's a good idea, and it drifts along with the other thoughts in his mind. Luna tugs them both forward all the way to the park, through the trees as the sun peers over the horizon, and finally she flops near a bench, overlooking a pond. There's already a guy there, dark clothes, and from the smell he might have been out here a while. James just nods, taking the place at the very end of the bench, unclipping the leash. ]
idk guess Jaskier is in a modern AU
Date: 2020-02-20 09:34 pm (UTC)He’s not afraid for himself- he’s very fast when he has to be, and he’s got experience charming (or frustrating, if that option doesn’t work) people enough that they leave him alone most of the time. Still, as much as he tries, as much as he does his best to hide his clothes and mess his hair and basically fall into every stereotype he’s heard of… his mannerisms, his accent, basically everything about him screams ‘out of place’ to anyone who’s looking. He may have been really damn bad at being old money, but he was still raised in it and that’s not something he can just shake away as much as he wishes to.
And oh how he wishes to. No one takes a guitarist seriously in a dirty, smelly, and (most annoyingly) loud place like this, where everyone seems to just be waiting for their next fight, everyone ready to jump at each other’s throats. But those are, sadly, the only places he can get a jig at nowadays and he did not come all the way to America, all the way to New York just to turn away at the first hurdle, to run back and hide in the comfort of a rich family. So singing he does, even if no one listens, even if they hate every second of it and he gets more insults than tips. He has to start somewhere, or so everyone seems to say, and so he plucks away at his guitar, singing songs about adventures he will never have, about dreams that always seem out of his reach and about people that he loved very, very much for a very, very short time.
He’s happy to grab the (meager) tips once he’s done, but the thing is, he’s been around for long enough now that he knows most of the regulars. So the tall, angry man with an aura that screams ‘get the fuck away from me’ catches his attention. And, true to his fashion, he absolutely ignores that aura and walks right towards him. The man also screams ‘adventure’, and Jaskier has never been good at ignoring the call towards that.]
So? [He takes a seat next to him.] What was your opinion? You don’t look like anyone who’s ever heard me sing before.
no subject
Date: 2020-02-20 10:11 pm (UTC)( he doesn't miss a beat in saying it. he's had his share of obnoxious hanger-ons, of which lieberman is only the latest in a long list. they're sitting on a bench in central park, frank's got a bag of seeds for the birds. old lady in 502 broke her hip and worried that her favorite duck with a gimped up leg wouldn't get his share. so here he is. feeding the fucking ducks, listening to this idiot yahoo belt out a bad taylor swift ripoff in the park. )
no subject
Date: 2020-02-20 10:30 pm (UTC)The cat should be so lucky!
[...Yeah.]
I'll let you know plenty of people enjoy my songs just fine.
no subject
Date: 2020-02-29 06:40 pm (UTC)( unless the guy's a masochist, in which case he can keep his kinks to himself, thanks.
frank busies himself spreading out sunflower seeds and grimacing at the happy quacking cacophony of ducks as they swarm closer. )
What's that accent, you British or something?
no subject
Date: 2020-03-05 10:07 pm (UTC)[He needs to be at least level 5 to unlock Jaskier's backstory, thank you very much. That, or his accent makes it obvious and he just likes to make himself interesting- your pick.]
I'm absolutely not the most interesting one in this conversation, scary-man-somehow-feeding-the-duck. So what's your story?