Okay, every New Amsterdam party is the worst. Stupid costumes. Stupid conventions. Stupid everything.
But this one is the worst. Thanks to the desire to seem festive, Keith's cab company has one thing that's hidden within the employee handbook that's sent to everyone once they join. They get freedom to do what they need to do, to drive how they want to drive, and in how to answer and respond to customers. The catch ... the catch is apparently this. Three days of a stupid costume, also while sitting outside of the main Oktoberfest areas and waiting.
Because they actually have stricter hours during that time.
And they have to actually ... get the attention of the customers.
So, yeah. Here's Keith, a twenty-two-year-old pilot—a freaking paladin of Voltron!—standing in shorts that are too short, bunching up around the crotch, with socks that come up just beneath his knees. And suspenders. And an ugly white shirt.]
Does anyone want a ride home? You get a ten percent discount and no risk of being caught in a terrible accident. [Yes, that's Keith reading out his script. Loudly. But flatly.
He hates this so much.]
b. lightweight, part one: searching
[There's a reason why Keith doesn't drink. It's partly because he doesn't like having his senses messed with, and partly because he had a drink alllllll the way back in his time at the Garrison, and it went horribly. He's a lightweight of the worst kind, so two high ABV IPAs? That's going to wreck him. What about three? Keith is having a hard time.
So ... here's Keith, still in the same stupid costume but off work, looking around for new displaced. The problem is? There are a lot of people in blue shirts.
He walks up to someone who is definitely not one of the displaced, and gets into their face.]
You have to tell me if you're on drugs. I guess I'll know if you listen to me. [The guy he's bothering? Well, he's not happy about Keith getting up in his face, and gives him a hard shove back.]
c. lightweight, part two: cool ... talk?
[Somehow, someway, Keith makes it back to the safehouse, but he's still pretty gone. Has he drank more since then? Probably. But he did throw a growler full of the anti-cyborg beer on the ground along the way. Cyborgs are friends—or so says the Voltron pilot who's loved both of his lions (especially since one of them kept his best friend alive).
Anyway ... he's diligently working on a project in the kitchen when someone walks in. If it weren't for his red cheeks, he might seem like any broody guy just sitting with crossed arms.
But Keith ... is definitely not just brooding.]
Come here! I wanna show you what I'm working on. [Though he's having a hard time figuring out how to grant someone permissions to what he's looking at, and frowns in consternation before long. (Though, if it's someone very new, he likely can't.)]
d. wildcard
[Drunk Keith will be playing VR games and walking around in the worst clothes in the world. I'm genuinely open to anything, so go for it or drop me a message through PMs.]
keith | voltron | ota
[Today sucks.
Okay, every New Amsterdam party is the worst. Stupid costumes. Stupid conventions. Stupid everything.
But this one is the worst. Thanks to the desire to seem festive, Keith's cab company has one thing that's hidden within the employee handbook that's sent to everyone once they join. They get freedom to do what they need to do, to drive how they want to drive, and in how to answer and respond to customers. The catch ... the catch is apparently this. Three days of a stupid costume, also while sitting outside of the main Oktoberfest areas and waiting.
Because they actually have stricter hours during that time.
And they have to actually ... get the attention of the customers.
So, yeah. Here's Keith, a twenty-two-year-old pilot—a freaking paladin of Voltron!—standing in shorts that are too short, bunching up around the crotch, with socks that come up just beneath his knees. And suspenders. And an ugly white shirt.]
Does anyone want a ride home? You get a ten percent discount and no risk of being caught in a terrible accident. [Yes, that's Keith reading out his script. Loudly. But flatly.
He hates this so much.]
b. lightweight, part one: searching
[There's a reason why Keith doesn't drink. It's partly because he doesn't like having his senses messed with, and partly because he had a drink alllllll the way back in his time at the Garrison, and it went horribly. He's a lightweight of the worst kind, so two high ABV IPAs? That's going to wreck him. What about three? Keith is having a hard time.
So ... here's Keith, still in the same stupid costume but off work, looking around for new displaced. The problem is? There are a lot of people in blue shirts.
He walks up to someone who is definitely not one of the displaced, and gets into their face.]
You have to tell me if you're on drugs. I guess I'll know if you listen to me. [The guy he's bothering? Well, he's not happy about Keith getting up in his face, and gives him a hard shove back.]
c. lightweight, part two: cool ... talk?
[Somehow, someway, Keith makes it back to the safehouse, but he's still pretty gone. Has he drank more since then? Probably. But he did throw a growler full of the anti-cyborg beer on the ground along the way. Cyborgs are friends—or so says the Voltron pilot who's loved both of his lions (especially since one of them kept his best friend alive).
Anyway ... he's diligently working on a project in the kitchen when someone walks in. If it weren't for his red cheeks, he might seem like any broody guy just sitting with crossed arms.
But Keith ... is definitely not just brooding.]
Come here! I wanna show you what I'm working on. [Though he's having a hard time figuring out how to grant someone permissions to what he's looking at, and frowns in consternation before long. (Though, if it's someone very new, he likely can't.)]
d. wildcard
[Drunk Keith will be playing VR games and walking around in the worst clothes in the world. I'm genuinely open to anything, so go for it or drop me a message through PMs.]