kingdomsofrain | picture prompt meme

Edited 2018-03-15 22:56 (UTC)

Oh, for god’s sake. There they go again with the noises.

Ever since the new people moved in next door, it’s been one big veritable orgy over there. Fine, fine, that may be an exaggeration; Dean doubts (maybe) that sex is involved, and it could be the noises are just the typical sounds of moving in. He doesn't know; he's never made that kind of a racket. And whatever the noises are, there's no getting around the fact that they're disturbing his peace of mind.

They'd arrived the other day, a large group of women, all piling into the rooms next door. He doesn't doubt there's plenty of space in there for them; his own apartment could easily house the members of a mid-sized jazz orchestra. Of course it doesn't. Dean lives alone, and likes it like that. It's the best way of ensuring peace and quiet.

Which he isn't getting now.

He gives a deep sigh as another crash (maybe not a crash so much as a dull thump, but it feels like a crash) shatters his silence. Well. Well, if those ladies want to make a circus of themselves and this entire floor, they're not going to do it without his objections.

In half a minute he's at their door. Dean gives four quick raps, then waits, arms crossed, ready to give an earful to whichever occupant responds.

one. two. three. four.

[ Traveling all day by foot would make most children weary. Laura has no option but to staying on the move. Even if she was capable of feeling winded by such distance, the thought of it would never enter her mind. The important thing was to get away. To keep moving. To find her friends.

Hunger does, however, present itself.

This brings her to the dumbstruck person before her doing more chattering than taking action. She finds no need to indulge this conversation other than shutting it down to return to her previous inquiry about food. She gives them the answer they're looking for. ]

Yes.

It's hard keeping track of anything anymore. If he'd ever known how to keep track, and really The Photojournalist couldn't say. He knows he's a (he thinks is a?) photojournalist, or he was, or he wanted to have been. He knows he's had the bandana around his head for a while. He knows there's someone very important somewhere around and somehow he'd wandered away from that very important person (or had he run off? why would he have done that?) and he has to find Kurtz as soon as possible even if the name spells trouble down his spine, even if he feels a little nauseous a little grateful a little awful just to think the name. He knows he's somewhere in the desert, though he's pretty sure he's never been to this part of the desert before and he's definitely certain that he has no idea how he got here in the first place.

The Photojournalist sits down by the cactus to think it out. Maybe his memory trouble's caused by something. Probably comes from um. Walking around in the sun too much or maybe not getting enough water. He's never been good at staying hydrated. Maybe he's been smoking too much? ...Nah, that can't be possible. It's probably the water thing. Man, he's got to drink more water. But where's he supposed to get that now?

He's looking around when he sees someone, a somewhat small someone. Can he approach the somehow? He stands, takes a few cautious steps toward the figure. "Hey, uh... Good morning?"

[ It's a fine day for a brisk walk! Michael finds time away from Hell to be, well, a bit of a relief frankly. For all he's come to find about humans and bestowing on them eternal damnation, he finds that the living are much more lively! Most blissfully unaware of their choices, he scurries around like an eager and rather large bird to absorb all the culture he can.

The he nearly plows into a woman with a rather clear message on her shirt. ]

Sorry!

[ He's quite loud with his apology. Though the demon has skidded to a halt in time to avoid collision, it doesn't stop him from scurrying around to face her and study her face. ]

I didn't know you had the dangling bits too. ...Aren't they usually in the front?

[ Sooooo this kid's pretty to-the-point. ]

'Yes' you consider applesauce a food or 'yes' you think the current value of the Commonwealth bottlecap is deplorable? Oh, I know! Or, 'Yes, Mr. Deacon, you talk too much so you should really shut your mouth.' That's the one, isn't it? I can see it in your eyes.

[ He probably shouldn't be joking around with a kid, especially once as worn-out as this one looks. She looks like she's been on the road all day, and she can't be more than, what... 10, or... 13 or... Hell, he doesn't know how old kids are. Deacon knows life leaves a lot of people, a lot of young people, to fend for themselves. But that doesn't make it any less of a sad situation. ]

As long as you don't try passing applesauce off as a food, sure, I've got something to eat. [ Motioning for her to follow, he heads toward the low fire he'd built up, his bag and his rifle set nearby, a few carrots and a can of cram laid out near the flames. Deacon moves to his bag, begins digging around. ] Hold on. I've got some Instamash in here, if you'd rather have that. And, uh, half a box of Sugar Bombs. I had some bloafly but, you know, lunch.

[1 2 3]

"Hi." A very informal greeting, but by no means unusual from Victor. He wasn't really the type to give long speeches or make a big announcement about how he'd caught him off-guard or something about how he shouldn't try to run. For one thing, the very visible guns he was wearing tended to do a lot of the talking for him. For another, he didn't really feel like threatening this man anyway. Seemed pointless.

But he did want to know where this was going.

"We could actually go inside." As dramatic as standing on a dark street was, this was Gotham. It was raining, he didn't like getting wet. So he pointed at a bar down the street with his thumb. "They make good drinks."

What he should have known: if you're an assassin, there's no way of entering Gotham without attracting Victor Zsasz's attention. Especially not if you're already known to the man. Daud had assumed dimly that Zsasz would show at some point. What he hadn't counted on was that it'd happen so soon.

He'd been in the city, what, two hours, three? Half walking the streets, half scoping out loftier vantage points. Just getting a sense of some sliver of Gotham (noting potentially useful routes for escape, for general travel, for remaining more or less unnoticed) before seeking out a place to stay the night. He shouldn't have used the streets at all. Should've stayed high and away from where he could be found. Because now he was caught in a situation that spelled no good.

There was no getting around it; that much was clear. Or, well. He could've slowed time, blinked away, disappeared before Zsasz could fire any of those guns (probably, though the man was preternaturally quick with weaponry, or he was last Daud knew). Even that would only be delaying the inevitable, and it'd give Zsasz all the more reason to distrust him. Which seemed like a terrible idea. Daud had come to Gotham to fade into the woodwork, not to instigate rifts or get himself killed.

"Zsasz.

"Why not."

"Aw. Don't I feel special." There was a smile on his face that told just about anyone exactly nothing, which was true of most every expression that ever crossed his face. Calling him a hard man to read was an understatement, given that there were some that claimed that there simply was nothing to read.

Victor turned to walk toward the bar he'd pointed out before, not looking back to see whether Daud was following and not hesitating with turning his back on him. Confidence. Hard to tell whether he'd risen to the top because of it or whether he had it because of being on top. He walked in and simply headed right to a free table, taking a seat and waiting for Daud to join him.

"You're not looking to work." It was more of a statement than a question. "So why come here?" There was the question.

He still dreams about her. Every night, he sees the Nancy who's not Nancy the Nancy who's beyond living and out for blood, his blood, or he dreams the not Nancy who's between his hands and dying or he dreams somehow both at once and there's no stopping himself and no stopping her and every night the world falls apart for those moments seeming hours and he knows what he's done the weight of what he's done and he can feel the skies come crashing in.

Still, when he bolts awake, it's not his own dreams that're responsible. It's Nance. (Hard to believe he's sharing a bed with her again hard to believe they're together again hard to believe she's here, she's here and she'd have him back, and somehow it all feels so natural, of course it does.) She's been having dreams of her own, seems like, tossing and kicking into him, almost like she's attacking something (or, yeah, or being attacked). This isn't the first time Bill's awakened to find her like this. The first time, then the second, he'd let her work through it, not certain he should interfere. Now, though... Maybe it's time to try a different tactic. Because she ain't calming down, and after his own dreams, this is... this is too close, too painful to watch.

He starts with a hand to her wrist, firm but as gentle as he can be."Nance? Nance, hey, Nance."

Nancy's always had nightmares. Since she was young, the devil himself had filled her dreams, with his kind smile and beady little eyes. When she got older, the dreams changed, other men would filter into them (always, always the men), and Bill, too, would become a fixture. Since the attack, he'd been there near every night.

Sometimes, the dreams weren't bad enough to wake her. She'd sleep through them and on to the next dream. She tried to keep them from Bill. She knew he had awful dreams as well, the reasons as to why she was sure she knew, but never dared ask for confirmation. She liked to think that her dreams had been better, since she started sleeping alongside him again.

Tonight, however, the dreams have become terrors, and Nancy thrashes about on their bed. She raises her arms to protect her face as she kicks out, fighting the phantom of the very man beside her. The one who's hand circles her wrist, and she cries out, her green eyes flying open as the scream is still on her breath. She's frozen there in the moonlight, eyes wide and unfocused, jaw slack. It's an awful thing, to awake from a nightmare to find you're still in it.

It'd been a while since Daud had seen that kind of confidence. There'd been plenty of toughs and hardasses in Dunwall, plenty who strutted and squawked their own praise, who thought they could take down an empire if they wanted. But all of them had retained three or four shreds of caution, the kind that kept them from turning their back on others, the kind that had them watching warily when winds began to shift.

Daud had held something of that confidence - the proud confidence, the unflinching the I-can-turn-my-back-on-you confidence - himself, once. Now it was... not gone, but off-kilter. More prone to fluctuation. And when he followed Zsasz toward the bar, he threw a glance of two over his shoulders, just for caution's sake.

He stood looking down at Zsasz for a minute before sitting, allowing his rigidity a slight relaxation, leaning back against the booth and folding his arms.

"You sound sure about that." It was a casual remark, tossed off as if it didn't mean much. Of course Zsasz would know, though the Void knew how he could say. He'd heard somewhere, or he read it in Daud's actions. Taken a wild guess or simply sensed it on the wind. However he'd discerned it, the man was right.

"I've got no way of disappearing in Dunwall. They know my face, my name. Here, I'm nothing. And the best place for a criminal to get lost is a city of crime." It was more than he'd typically have said, but knowing Zsasz, it was best not to withhold information or play it coy. Daud would rather have come to Gotham, established a home for himself, and dealt with this sort of business far down the line. But there was no use fighting against what was happening, and maybe it wouldn't end too poorly.

"True. Besides, in Gotham no one cares. I don't even get traffic tickets." And that sure as hell wasn't due to his careful driving or amazing parking skills. He didn't give enough of a fuck for either and his city had never punished him for it. Understandable, who'd want to be the traffic cop that gave Victor Zsasz a ticket.

"You do what you want. But you're a good egg. If you want to make money without getting tangled, let me know." It was either him or the Lady, but he wasn't about to advertise for her. Besides, personally he'd have rather worked for himself, all bias aside, and Daud was a good man. Seemed a waste not to make use of his talents.

"I work for the Penguin right now. Mostly. You heard of him?" Still a new player, by Gotham standard. Nothing like how established the Falcone family had been, in their way as rooted in the city as the Waynes. Don Falcone had left the city and although Victor still considered himself loyal to the Don above anything else, he knew that times had changed. He could adjust, he had the Don's blessing. "He lets me do my thing. I can delegate. No one but me has to know who you are."

"I've heard the name; not much more. What news of Gotham we got in Dunwall was always suspect." Had either sounded too good or too bloody to be true, and it was always clear the messengers were playing sides and championing sensationalism. "I'm under the impression he's tenacious, anyway. Good to know he doesn't keep you on a tight rope." It was hard to envision Zsasz being kept on a tight rope, or any kind of rope. And it did sound like an ideal position; connected to someone with power, easy access to what must be a plenitude of jobs, but not kept at some bastard's beck and call.

And Daud could, if he was understanding correctly, become a part of that. It was tempting, and flattering to have someone offer work so quickly. It would've been so easy to say yes and slip back into his old role (he could, and he could reshape his methods to fit this city, more corrupt through and through than Dunwall, filled with even more opportunities to enact his will and carve out a place for himself). Easier still because Zsasz - confidant as ever - made it seem to simple, so natural. All Daud had to do was say yes, and that would be that.

But he'd told himself it was ended. But he'd seen too much to go back. (It was a nice thought. It wasn't entirely true, but it was a nice thought, and for the moment he stuck by it.)

"It's a tempting offer, but I'm trying not to repeat my old mistakes." Mistakes like helping Dunwall plummet closer to its end. Like killing the one woman who'd kept everything in check, who'd kept the disease from devastating the entire city. With her gone, probably the only decent mayor the city's had in years, everything'd gone to hell, and there was no telling if Dunwall could ever recover. Daud had never seen his work as anything that touched the people beyond his targets. The way he'd seen it, he'd changed the world in small ways. Made his mark one person at a time. Jessamine changed that. Jessamine's death showed the broader consequences of his action, show how corrupt those consequences were, and now Daud couldn't stop thinking in that way.

He wasn't going to say all of that, of course.

"Sounds like you're doing pretty well for yourself."

She looks like a bloody nightmare, herself. For a moment Bill wonders whether he's slipped back into the dream and this is one of the not Nancys or both of the not Nancys, the sign of his ills and the would-be bringer of his end. Course that can't be; he's as awake as he's ever been, and this is... He's in the bed they share. He's in her place, their place. He never dreams about their home, so this can't be a dream, can't possibly.

Still, the way she looks, the way she's looking at nothing. It ain't right. Almost ain't human.

"Jesus. Jesus..." He's still clutching her wrist, half because he's too caught up in staring at her face to remember to release, half because he's afraid to let her go, afraid she'll either attack him (all the while following him with those eyes, and look at her eyes now, stretched wide, unseeing maybe but there's blame in them, isn't there? isn't there?) or fall back into ash.

"Oi, Nancy!" Now his hand goes to her jaw, tilting her face toward his own, trying not to look too hard into those open eyes. "Nancy, come now, wake up."

His touch jars her enough that she pulls back, trying to yank her wrist from his grasp, and recoiling against his touch. But that's what she needs, for the air to force itself back into her lungs, and for her to look up at him, red hair mussed from sleep.

Slowly, she looks around- she's in their place, Bill is here, and he looks- good god he looks worried sick in that way of his. Worried. Concerned. And now she's gone and certainly hurt him, upset him.

Nancy crumples into tears, forcing herself to look away from Bill. He couldn't see her like this. She didn't want him to know what she'd dreamt of, why she was so upset. They'd never spoken about it, after all. Better to just sweep it under the threadbare rug and continue on.

She turns her back to Bill, covering her eyes with her hands. It was shameful. It was all her fault.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, eyes squeezed shut. For waking him, for hurting him, for driving him to try to murder her. For bringing them back here to the same room where it had happened six years ago, blood still stained the floor. Sorry for not being stronger. Sorry she wasn't the woman he deserved.

[The collusion never happens, but Genkai senses Michael enough to back away herself and look at him with big eyes that at once look young and bright, but also old as all hell and look like they they could probe at whatever soul (or lack of it) a demon has.

The human woman is blank, but she's internally studying the man before with a keen mind. Demon. The Western Variety. Looks like a nerd. Aside from that, she's actually sort of calm.]

The shirt is a figure of speech... in my case at least.

[ The more the man talks the more aggravated Laura becomes. Her hands clench into tight fists when the drone of the stranger's voice turns into the irritating hum of an insect.

Referencing his own annoyance throws her off. Her expression remains the same, but the instinct to attack is quashed. As the man begins to root around in his bag rattling off the names of food, Laura finally makes her full approach. Shouldering past the man, she starts to dig through the bag herself until she produces a box of instamash and tucks it under her arm to solidify her claim. ]

Agua. Water.

picture prompt meme

for reineke and gothamventures

Buddy | Lisa The Joyful | (honey badger don't care, honey badger gaf)

Isolde, Lilith, Rosalie | OC | OTA | I'll take anybody ayyyy.

Young!Genkai | Yu Yu Hakusho (or Team Albany!AU) | F/M | don't care

Bill » everyone lives au

The Warden | Superjail! (or that bwe au) | OTA | ANYBODY

idk where they're living but hey what the hell

for cannibalartist (not necessarily with daud; just using his to post)

3, idek man!

i'm sorry buddy

1

if the fallout commonwealth works as a setting? i dunnoooooo

August Marten | OC | Down 4 Everybody

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

yessss that works for me