∞ [ action post ]

[fatespoken]

✏ LOGGING: This is your thread for logging, whether spontaneous or plot-related, silly or serious. His normal haunts include shifts at the Blue Light, various city bars, cafes, random encounters, etc. Prose preferred, [] are fine too.

✉ TO SET UP: Just drop me a line at aeloriax[at]gmail.com or Y!M/AIM (listed in the post below) to give me a heads-up. I'm open to anything as long as it fits ICly.

TRACKING:
March;
Peter & Amory [ Blue Light ] ✯ this is a song lyric [ in progress ]

Comments

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[fatespoken]

The weak glow of light from the off-centered ceiling lamp allows the shadows to tuck the booth into a dark corner. They eclipse the table in shades, catching in the rise and hollows of Amory's face, draped severely against the depressions under his eyes. Single movements of the hour hand had tread their marks, but this was not anything unusual-- insomnia wasn't the right word for it, he would say. Others would claim it so, but Amory would purport volition. It was his decision to stay up with the midnight hours, sitting out the tapping of thoughts until they quieted away. Rumination with frayed edges was born nightly, as was often the case with the human psyche, carrying their worries with loud voices-- recent events like the fear of leaving or the heavy weight of particular curses, but Amory celebrated the occasion, made a ritual of it with a toast and ten more. He could have slept, he should have slept, but there was better escape with practiced indifference and a touch of alcohol. A touch, says the seventh shot of Bacardi 151 in his hand. Weak taste, cheap rum, yet an easy run to those smudged shapes. Reflex had him conditioned to shying from sleep, its associated comfort replaced with the fear of expectation. But there was nothing to expect here, none of that, none of those pictures and lives pressed against his eyelids. None of those lives he had to live.

"Isn't this a night?"

He speaks only to himself, and if there was anyone nearby, they would have heard a whisper. There shouldn't have been. It was past closing and the shadowed booth was far from salient. No one would come, he was sure of it, and that was the only reason he had chosen to drink here. Other times would have driven him either to his apartment or the Colosseum, but the Blue Light was quiet enough for his needs. The former too empty, the other too rowdy. He raises the small shot glass to his lips, tipping back another swallow.

i buried it too deep under the iron sea;

[oshutup.livejournal.com]

No one should still be at The Blue Light, and Peter pauses in the back hall, his own quiet-enough footfalls stilling to silence as he listens to the recognizable clink of a glass, the kind that says a bottom edge has just been knocked absently against a tabletop or counter in being drawn back up for another usage. He has one guess to make as to the not-so-mysterious personage present at this too-late hour, and his guess is more a certainty even before he sees the reputedly and proven surly bartender taking what could be his first shot but probably is not. Blue eyes do not quite hood; nor do they narrow, but the scrutiny makes itself known in other ways, not thick like a weight and not thin like a twig bound to snap at a returning look, much closer to something tempered in between--a blade's finer edge.

Walking over to the booth Amory Felix has chosen as this night's pause, he slides in, across from the other man with unpracticed ease, a smoothness made more of confidence of simply knowing one's space than having repetitively and unobtrusively placed himself in someone else's space before. He leans back and his shoulders slope with the trail of a sigh that manages to be something less than noticeable, his head tilted back enough that he has to look a little down to also look at the person who is not quite his friend but is not a not-friend either. Perhaps he ought to say something. Perhaps he oughtn't, but what he ought to do and what he ought not to do aside, what Peter does is quite simple.

He sits still and waits, fully banking on anyone's presence being unwelcome enough to have the other man talking first.

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

[worksmart.livejournal.com]

It's not a regular spot but that might be why Chase has picked the Coliseum as his first stop of the night, not sure when plans for the evening became a bar crawl but knowing that here at least there won't be any regulars asking the occasion, or waitresses suggesting that maybe he's had enough without knowing about the constant game of chicken currently playing itself out between his impulse and common sense. It's enough to drive anyone to drink, and Chase has chosen tequila for his purposes simply because he never usually would.

I've never gone cliff-diving. At night, in winter, without checking the water depth first.

To the best of his knowledge he's never had a death wish, either, but today is proving a first for everything. The first shot sours in his mouth and he finds himself eyeing the source, dark amber among a host of cocktail brights, and twisting his hand in a lazy curve to call the bartender toward him. "I've never drunk down to the worm before. Can I get the bottle?"

Another good reason to pick the Coliseum: they're brilliantly obliging.

I've never danced on a bar.

Oh, god. Letting the bottle drop heavy into the curl of his fist Chase turns away from dubious temptations and scans the booths and tables, crowded with other faces caught in the same conflicts his own expression must show. It's a curse. All he has to do is last 'til midnight trying to drown out the compulsions that could kill him now or leave him spending tomorrow wishing he had. He's one shot down, and there's a chair free on a table otherwise crowded with gloom, tangible from across the room, visible in the downturn of a dark head and the empty bottles pushed into a halo around it.

I never got wasted with Amory before.

The thought and movement come almost concurrent with each other as, uninvited, Chase pulls out the chair back and drops easily down into it, his own addition to the table making the empties jump in an aftershock. His grin might not be facetious, but the little accompanying wave probably is.

"Hey."

keep it all from sympathy / your day today your dignity

[fatespoken]

Of all things. Of all things

No.

But of course, the uninvited guest of the night would have to be Robert Chase. A rehash of the catalyst to this week's disaster. Had a bit too much to drink, collided into Peter and thus proceeded to let the lead drop and bludgeon the memories out of him with the slip of a tongue. Technically, the slip of tongue and some preternatural aid, but both were essentially mistakes.

A mistake he wouldn't risk making with Chase tonight.

He throws back the remaining swallow of Blue Moon, and then takes the decisive route to abstain from any sort of liquor tonight. Coke or water would do if he needed something. Besides, with a degree of sobriety on his side, perhaps he would manage to argue away the nuisance positioned in front of him. Or if that didn't do the trick, maybe a nice fist would wipe that damn grin off the Australian's face.

Resist, Amory. Resist.

"No. Not tonight, Chase. Get out," he sighs, a tired lean to his voice as he establishes the comment as an order with a harsh slam of bottle bottom against table. He's hardly up to playing along with curse-induced whims, considering that Amory's never been inclined to oblige to others' whims in the first place. Certainly not tonight, if one can trace the map of his features. Under his eyes rest those red-purple stains that often follow the way of sleepless hours, though that detail is a relative compliment to his haggard countenance. To put it frankly, Amory looks like shit. Two days ago, he had told Eden that it felt like he had been run over by two metaphorical trucks and half. Two days past, and a half still lingers.

Right now, Robert Chase is aiming to be the driver of that half of a truck.

spill it out on the ragged floor / a thousand different versions of yourself

[worksmart.livejournal.com]

[Sunday night, after midnight, and with the chains broken between Claire and Eden Chase has decided it's safe to take his leave and deal with the thing that's been burning a hole in his pocket since the afternoon. He hadn't meant to take the picture from the hospital; was only holding on to it to ask the last few nurses whose shifts he hadn't caught if they'd seen the face -- once seen, he suspected they'd have remembered it. Then curses, distractions, and he'd made off with what should have been kept in a confidential file, even one named Jane Doe.

And then Eden solved the puzzle without knowing it. The one person he hadn't been going to ask. Lucky he didn't, the girl doesn't need another entry on her list of reasons to shoot Amory. Because that's who Chase is waiting for now, arms folded in the corridor outside the younger man's apartment, assuming he'll have vacated whichever couch he was catnapping on in short measure and be making his way home.

It could wait 'til morning, but Chase knows he wouldn't sleep.]

spill it out on the ragged floor / a thousand different versions of yourself

[fatespoken]

[ Transitioning from man to cat and cat to man, all while in the clutches of Frankie, has left Amory in a piss poor mood. A poor mood compounded atop an already sour demeanor means dealing with him will be akin to stepping on a patch of pins. It's only darkened in shades as he's trudged home-- another day at work missed, another day demeaned, another day acting puppet to the deities. One would feel sorry for the drunken man who had slammed into him on the walk back.

Yet, as he steps out of the elevator, that anger fades into observation, shoulders tightening ramrod straight. He surveys the hallway, seeming to ignore the only tangible figure there. Not even a pause for the Doctor, though surely Amory has noticed him, as he's currently making a straight, brisk line to catch him at the door. Even if he's as sloppy as Eden is precise, he wouldn't miss that presence. ]

plenty of ways you can hurt a man and bring him to the ground - but I'm ready for you

[orangetoughguy]

[Freddy Newendyke's got various reasons for being out on his own tonight, some of them are pink. Actually all of them might be pink. Funny how that finds him heading towards The Blue Light for a drink, maybe just to sit somewhere and listen to the music. He has a cigarette between his lips, half smoked down.]

plenty of ways you can hurt a man and bring him to the ground - but I'm ready for you

[fatespoken]

[ Amory's gone out for a break and a smoke, walking out the back door and into the street. It's a quiet night tonight, without a single light dotting the street; save for Freddy Newendyke and his half-smoked cigarette. Out of his own pocket, Amory draws a fag, and shuffling for a lighter from his pocket. But he's hardly got the end lit when he comes into his teeth.

Amory's hardly aware when it happens-- hardly aware of himself at that point. It's all amorphous colors and streaks of emotion in chaotic tumbles, tearing across his mind, only to draw out a single, sure inclination.

He's hungry. Starving And there's not a single soul here, save for Freddy Newandyke. ]

just give fair warning any time you come around

[whitetwoguns]

[Patience is always and forever the greatest tool that any man of action can possess outside of brains. Larry fancies himself to be a person to wield both. He's got plenty of time, wading in it after work. Just in case patience fails him, he's got his silencer, his knuckleduster, a silver cross he bought on the street and special ingredient.

Mr. White knows who he is waiting for and were to linger. And he's not going home without trying. If he fails, well, let's not think about that. There's a very distinct message that's going to go out with this. Don't fuck with Mr. Orange. Don't fuck with people like that who will wait for days like that. That's bullshit.

His Chesterfield is about spent. And a glance to the clock tells him that it's pretty fucking early. Come on, Fucker. Where are you.]

just give fair warning any time you come around

[fatespoken]

[ Amory should take more precaution than he does, wandering the streets this time at night. It could be that kind of complacency that settles when you live in a place too long, and convince yourself that you're immune to its dangers.

The point is that Amory is walking home, cigarette perched between his lips, entirely unaware of the danger that lurks in this shadows. Within his visions, he may be privy to the lives and fates of victims, but he was rarely the victim. The City had tested him once with Frankie.

Circumstances would soon prove him wrong again. ]

looks like we're in for nasty weather / one eye is taken for an eye

[turnedyesterday.livejournal.com]

[ It's been a long weekend, one that Jessica's more than eager to put behind her. She's looking and feeling a good deal better, having finally gotten her hands on some blood - true blood, that is, not Tru Blood. The night air is also doing her good, the relative freedom of the City a welcome change from the cramped quarters aboard the train, oppressing in every sense of the word.

But something is still amiss; being what she is, it should come as no surprise that the smell of blood draws her closer and closer to the scene. At first she doesn't realize that it's dictating her route, walking as her whims take her, but the nearer she draws, the more aware she becomes that she's moving towards something. Likewise, the more difficult it becomes to alter the course.

It's not long, though, before her target presents itself. There's a great deal of blood, which is naturally the first thing to occur to her and the only motivation she needs to close the distance between her and the prone figure with a burst supernatural speed. Of course, once she's close enough, the identity of the fallen individual becomes clear, and she's more than slightly grateful that she's already eaten. Even still, all that blood on the pavement...]

Oh my fucking--

[It remains a distraction, the smell of it nagging at her, compelling her to drink, but she forces herself to focus. It's not easy for a vampire, especially not for one so inexperienced, but she forces it. Amory is clearly not dead, and she'd actually rather not change that fact. She manages to kneel next to him, carefully avoiding contact with the silver as she reaches to pull the garlic from his mouth- gently but urgently. ]

Amory? Hey, you hear me?

looks like we're in for nasty weather / one eye is taken for an eye

[fatespoken]

[ The only reply Jessica gets is a weak groan, loud enough for a vampire's precise hearing, and a good enough indicator for Amory's status as one of he living. For now.

He hears her, the words diced and mashed, and he clings to the voice like rope thrown out, so that fumbling hands might attempt to grab its teasing end. Amory screams in his head, barely forming the words with his lips even if he believes he's yelling. ]

Alive Here. Alive. Hospital, call--

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