[Open] Maybe there's no one who's perfect (but who wants to be anyway)

[unlucky7]

WHO: Ginia and YOU!
WHERE: Around New Amsterdam and dreams
WHEN: Throughout March
WHAT: Various open prompts for interaction
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Violence, alcohol usage, drowning, depiction of bodies, reference to child harm/death (see marked subjects).

Comments

Red Wings

[unlucky7]

[Ginia works most nights at the sports bar. Most of the time she's security: checking IDs at the door, cutting people off when they've had too much to drink, bailing people out from creeps, and making sure people have a safe ride home if they need one. Fights are rare, but once in awhile, she's all too happy to throw down with someone in a round or two of arm wrestling. She always wins.

When she's not working as a security, she's helping out as a server. Good at remembering orders, coordinated enough to carry everything on a tray without spilling anything, she likes it. Service with a smile, and she rolls with the best of them, though sometimes as she's walking away, she'll catch the eyes of a coworker to roll her eyes and share some exasperation.

As for taking breaks? It's far more likely someone will have to remind her to take them.]

[voktys]

⟪ breaks were a concept someone had to properly explain to melisandre, who stems from a time where worker rights were non-existent, and worse still, from a place where many workers were frankly considered property. easy to see why she has taken a shine to the concept, and now habitually makes sure the others take their own.

it is late now, the last couple of hours of the night where few people enter and most of the bar has emptied out. she looks positively haunting: dressed in red as ever, paler by the day, dark circles under her eyes now that r'hllor no longer takes the burden of sleep from her, while she still refuses to take more than an hour at a time for it, with days between.

once she finds ginia, by the door as so often during her bouncer shifts: ⟫

You should take your break. ⟪ then, holding a plate out to her –⟫ There was a faulty order.

⟪ that means: free mozzarella sticks. not that she knows what mozzarella is, or that this variant doesn't have all that much to do with what it used to stand for. ⟫

[unlucky7]

[Ginia is horrible when it comes to taking care of herself and her well-being, but is far more attuned to others. When Melisandre comes over with food, she notices how dead exhausted she looks before the food.

It's slow, winding down, she's not the only bouncer on staff.]

Only if you come eat with me. You look like you could use some rest. Everything okay?

[voktys]

⟪ not the first time angela had asked her something to that effect, but it is still a bizarre, thought not unpleasant, sensation. her own well-being matters little to melisandre, it is a thoroughly mortal concern – but then, isn't she thoroughly mortal here? ⟫

I am not given to sleep. ⟪ and after the honesty, she turns attention away with a warm near-jest: ⟫ But I am all the more happy to share the food with you.

⟪ she inclines her head towards a quiet booth off to the side, where no one usually sits, a little out of reach of the rest of the bar. ⟫ What of you?

⟪ after all, she had been on some rather intense adventure, given what jon snow had told her of his trip. ⟫

[filloryfanatic]

[Quentin's brand new to Red Wings but it's a familiar-ish type of establishment. You can't go wrong with bars or sports bars, any former college student knows that well. It's helped him at least adjust to the place and he's still trying to get his feet wet with this whole marketing and PR angle. He likes social media and he's eager to please, determined to succeed. Still, there's a point where there's not much else for him to do but to wait for replies, so he wanders out to people watch.

He is a perplexing blend of an introvert and an extrovert. Quentin gets exhausted by people but mostly because he spends so much time worrying about them, and at the same time he craves connection and friendship. This being his new attempt at a life means he has really tried to get out of his comfort zone and greet people directly. It's a 50-50 shot of whether or not it works for him or if he nervously excuses himself quickly.

He's been watching Angela work out of the corner of his eye and isn't staring so much as this inner Q-Clock of worry, since she's one of the people here he does consider a friend already. So when there's a lull in the place, Quentin wanders over to her with a glass of water, offering it over. He has one of his own too.]

My dorm house was kind of like this 24-7, I learned hydrating at all times was sort of necessary.

[unlucky7]

[Ginia smiles at Quentin and accepts the glass of water. Sometimes being security means standing around and looking simultaneously intimidating and attractive. If nothing happens on her shift, it means she did her job well. Contrary to what most people think, a good bouncer doesn't get into fights. They certainly end them, but the best route is to diffuse things before they happen.

Thankfully, it's a quiet night. The kind of night where people are content with the company they have and not seeking to cause trouble.]

Thanks. I usually carry a water bottle when I bounce back in my world. Ensures no one tries to tamper with my drink. Only had to throw it once when someone pulled a knife on me.

[filloryfanatic]

[Quentin's not the type of person to get into fights intentionally of any kind. He stayed out of trouble, until trouble found him, and then it was all kinds of permanent trouble. A fight at a bar would almost be so comically normal, but he's not the one who would have to deal with it. She's an impressive figure. He doesn't know who would be stupid enough to challenge her.]

We had a spell for detecting anything being placed in drinks or food, the physical kids did generally like to fuck around with drugs and trouble, but usually we all knew what was spiked. Margo would curse anyone who did it for shady reasons. [He smiles; those were simpler times, but she was still fierce as fuck.] And I mean literally curse, magic wise.

[That was back when failing out of Brakebills seemed like the worst case scenario. His eyebrows lift at her.] So you were a bouncer at home too?

Night Patrol - CW for violence

[unlucky7]

[Some nights after her bar shift, Ginia goes on patrol. She prowls in a hooded motorcycle jacket, hood up and her face covered with a makeshift bandanna, hands gloved. Her weapon of choice is an extendable baton or good old fists, but she's not afraid to use her power as needed with how thick her jacket is.

It's an old habit of her life, keeping an eye out for any trouble. She's not so worried about the fighting rings or illegal street races, but the intimidation rackets? People taking advantage of someone that's drunk and alone? Ginia comes in fast and hits hard.

A partner on her patrols is welcome, especially if there's murmuring of larger gang activity about to go down. Objectors are also welcome. After all, assault is still a crime.]

cw for blood/injury

[powerofgod]

( humanity does not suit him.

he has been two thousand years bereft. it is an old skin that rests uneasily on his frame. his senses are dull, his mind awash with memories a human mind is not built to accommodate. human food possesses too many flavors and fats, he makes himself sick the first time he tries anything more than bread. his body is sixteen, but it is a day older than he ever expected it to be.

and then another. and another.

he does not wish to dwell. his world is changed, and there is no going back. survival or death. it suits this place equally as much as the long glut of years spent with eric.

so he is out at night. not hunting. trying to acclimate. to the sounds, the sights, the chill of the air on his skin. all are known quantities, but all are unfamiliar to him as he is. he cannot hear heartbeats. he cannot hear the sluice of blood through veins. he is human. weak and fragile and possessed of a short life accentuated by misery and loss. he finds it intriguing. a fitting end for his very long existence. he wishes to live. it is almost more of a surprise than simply being here in this place.

but he has little cause to care for danger to himself. he has not troubled himself about it in many hundreds of years, and so he is careless in that regard. he pays no mind to the man that begins to follow him, even when that following takes the two of them down a small sidestreet cut between two old buildings.

what follows is a very human affair. the man has a knife, he wants godric to transfer whatever credits he has to his name to some offshore account. godric takes a step towards the man before the peril of the situation truly makes itself known to him. a knife is nothing to a vampire, but it is everything to a mortal teenage boy. his attention pivots to the blade. it has to be taken out of play. he is confident he can subdue the man by dint of knowledge and technique alone.

his refusal is politely firm, and the man attacks. rather than flinch away from the knife godric simply puts one hand up, the blade goes through his palm. he closes his fingers over the man's hand at its base.

the pain startles him enough that he bares his teeth, though without fangs it is nothing more than a pained grimace. rather than be frustrated by the lack of his powers, the resultant surge of adrenaline (when did he last feel that? the brand on his shoulder, perhaps) is invigorating. he may not be able to rip the man limb from limb, but he will not leave him alive.

still, it must look a sight. a teenage boy grappling with a grown man in an alley. )

[unlucky7]

[Ginia has never been anything but human. At her core, she is mortal and rooted in a world where humans are the greatest threat to everything around them. The drive to be better and stronger is what pushed advancements in technology, first external, than internal.

She is human, but like so many others in her world, she's augmented with technology and alloys. Bonded into her body, covering her skeleton and nerves, floating in her veins and bonded to her muscles. The peak of human strength and endurance, perhaps even more in some regards. The human body is her limiter, but humans have grown stronger over the decades.

That combined with her years of training means she's a monster in all but appearance. Ginia stalks the streets with earned confidence, keeping to shadows and minimizing her footsteps to a faint whisper even in boots. She knows how to shift her motions. To look smaller, uncertain, to look more like a target. Tonight, she's taller, confident, exuding attitude that warns anyone around she will mess them up if they mess with her.

So she's left alone and she's left to her patrol. Ginia turns the corner when she sees a teen go into an alley, followed closely by a man with nervous trouble written all into his posture. Her pace increases, following the two in, already palming her baton. A second after the blade goes into the teenager's hand, a second after he grimace and grapples with the man, Ginia strikes.

There's no burst of inhuman speed, no blur of motion. Ginia is visible, but she is fast. Her long strides cover the ground, legs used to sprinting giving the needed burst of speed. She attacks with practiced ease, striking him soundly with a backhand from her baton that flows through her movements. The hard metal cracks into his head with a crunch. Before he falls entirely, Ginia grabs him in the motion, bringing the baton down on his wrist to break the bones and his hold on the knife. The last thing she needs is him tearing the knife out as he falls.

The man topples back, Ginia grabs him and lowers him to the ground. He's unconscious, bleeding, but he is alive. Ginia's baton retracts and disappears back into her pocket with efficient ease as she looks at the teen and stands. Her bandanna covers the lower part of her face, the hang of the hood casting the rest in shadow. But her posture relaxes somewhat as she approaches.

...All things considered, the teen seems composed for someone with a knife sticking out of his hand.]

I can walk you to the hospital or stay with you until an ambulance arrives.

[She doesn't speak, choosing instead to sign.]

[powerofgod]

( he has no expectation of a savior, though he knows full well humans are prone to heroics he has also seen them at their cruelest and most base, and he knows the race intimately by now. so when the woman intervenes with strength and speed he sees more commonly in shifters, it draws his attention. it speaks momentously to her character.

the fight is over in a moment. godric is left with the knife embedded between two metacarpals. he studies it curiously, but does not remove it. his body feels shock, faint and distantly. adrenaline is still surging through his endocrine system, now bereft of the relief of a fight. he feels oddly keyed up, like a new vampire might when bloodlust takes them.

still, his control of soul and self is very fine. his voice stays even when he speaks — )

I don't believe either to be necessary, thank you.

( he tilts his head to one side, though he does not look at her as he begins to take off the hoodie he is wearing. he will wrap the hand to conceal the blood, and simply return to the safehouse where he can clean and mend it. but this woman... no, he does not think she is any more local to this place than he is. locals learn to look away when the commonality of violence strikes. )

You are one of the Displaced?

[deadthenred]

[ It's ironic, maybe, for someone with a bona-fide Avengers I.D. card, but Bucky's hardly ever thought of himself as a superhero.

Maybe it goes back to where it all began for him, back in the war, when people from his world started wearing masks. There were the real heroes, the ones who could fly or whisper themselves through walls, or kill a man with just a touch. And then there were the tourists, thrillseekers running around in bright colors with no powers and sometimes not even training, just trying to get in on the fun. Bucky didn't want to be a tourist. So he held himself back, maybe without realizing why. The mask was a uniform, a job. And that's just about how it's always been.

All of which is to say, he's not looking for a fight when he finds one.

Bucky is walking back to the safehouse, at an hour of high darkness, with his sleeves down but his face open, when he hears a scream. And there, wouldn't you know it, is a silhouette in a biker jacket punching someone until they are bloody. ]

Hey— what?

[ Not the smartest thing, asking a street brawl what it's doing. But even if Bucky wasn't looking for a fight, he's not afraid of joining one. The question is: who needs help, here? ]

[unlucky7]

[Old habits are hard to break. Ginia grew up in a life surrounded by violence, a moral compass pulled hard in the wrong direction. She had her orders, her directives, and she carried them out again and again and again until she began to rust and crack and fall apart. And these days, there aren't any orders but the ones she chooses to follow and the decisions she makes for herself.

But she's still deeply steeped in violence. A means to an end she still reaches for. Sometimes it works, sends the right message.

Ginia pauses as a third person shows up. A wet groan escapes from the man she's hitting, body slumping to the ground as she releases him and straightens up. Her hood throw her face in shadows, the lower half of her face covered by black cloth.]

He had it coming.

[She signs, turning to walk away.]

[Dream] Bottoms Up - CW for alcohol

[unlucky7]

[The Silver Chains is a glitzy nightclub styled in an Art Deco pastiche, dramatic black and red velvet curtains and cushions, bold silver and gold decorations, sleek black furniture. The music is jazzy, though sometimes it veers into dance hits and techno. The dance floor and lounge areas are filled with people dressed in a mix of clubwear and attire styled after the 1920s. It's loud, obnoxious, and decadent. A call-back to an era impossible for anyone to remember.

There's a crowd gathered by one of the bars, egging on a drinking contest. Ginia sits at the counter dressed in her usual leather jacket, t-shirt, and cargo pants. Her hair is long and curly, falling past her shoulders. A long string of empty shot glasses turned upside down are lined up in front, five more filled glasses near glowing from the lights set in the bar waiting. She grabs a shot glass and smirks at her opponent before downing the shot, slamming the glass upside-down on the counter. Her opponent takes up the shot glass in an unsteady hand, raising it to his lips before dropping it and running off, clutching his gut. His friends trail after as the crowd roars with laughter, money exchanging - some by cash, others with a tap of wrist-to-phone or wrist-to-wrist.

Ginia smirks and finishes the remaining shots, gesturing toward the open seat and signing:]

What? You want to try too?

fancy meeting you here in a dream

[championofsnark]

[Hawke's never seen anything like this, but she's also getting used to constantly being in new situations these days. Some of the 'dive' bars in their new home reminds her a bit of the Hanged Man, but nah, nothing like this could compare. She doesn't know how she got here either, only that she is, and in true Hawke form she doesn't get alarmed. She merely shrugs and rolls with it. What she is surprised about is that she looks down and she's dressed closer to her normal clothing. She lacks the real sharp armor and blades at her back, but the red tunic and black fitted pants are solely her style, which tells her none of this is true. And that's fine. Her dreams have been far worse.

Black hair is slightly longer and there's a distinct red swipe of paint across her nose; paint, not blood, for once. She strides around the nightclub knowing she sticks out like a sore thumb, and she doesn't understand how her mind came up with all of this. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembers people talking about dreams, but Hawke isn't great at listening. She's drawn naturally to some sound happening by a crowd. Curious, Hawke comes closer and while Angela looks different, the hair's the obvious one, she recognizes her instantly. Well, well. This is quite a dream then.

Hawke grins and slides into the open seat, putting an arm over the back of the chair and comfortably lounging in it.]

You plan on drinking everyone under the table, love? You should let other people have a chance at drinking before you soak it all up..

[unlucky7]

Only the ugly, arrogant ones. He thought he could best me.

[He thought wrong. Ginia looks toward where the man and his friends lurched off to, but she's not worried or even curious. On some level she knows this is a dream. The memories of her mind building together a fragile world. Maybe it'll be forgotten in the morning. Maybe it'll hold a little more true.

Hawke is here. Ginia smiles and rolls a shot glass on its edge as she admires her outfit. It's an attractive look, bold, daring.]

You though, you are too attractive to collapse under a table somewhere.

[Really, if her mind wants to fill her dreams with attractive women she's recently met, Ginia won't complain. It's better than her usual nightmares.]

[Dream] Deep Blue - CW for drowning

[unlucky7]

[It should be darker in deep water. There's a feeble blue glow high above toward the surface, a deeper void below. Sinking into the void are eight figures. Bags over their heads, wrists cuffed behind their backs, ankles cuffed, all dressed in military coveralls in a drab grey. Some of the figures struggle and fight, some sink downward without a fight.

There's a ninth figure lashing about in the water. Ginia picks her way out of the handcuffs and tugs the bag off her head. Her hair twists in the water as she picks her ankle cuffs and takes off swimming toward the other figures. She's fast, sleek, but no matter how much she pushes herself, the nearest person is always falling further down, out of reach.]

[Dream] Snow Angels

[unlucky7]

[Standing on a rooftop, music rumbles through as a muffled pulse. It's snowing outside, large flakes slowly drifting in an endless loop, the layer of snow already piled up never lessening. Ginia leans against the railing, admiring the city sprawled out below. It's a bustling, busy city full of skyscrapers, city lights drowning out the stars above. Her expression is contemplative as she watches the city, a cigarette in hand. A rifle case rests by her feet.

Ginia takes a long drag on the the cigarette, smoke swirling with the snow on the exhale. She turns and leans against the railing, smile lazy and holding the cigarette in her mouth to free up her hands.]

I hate smoking, but there's a certain mood to it isn't there.

[devilsun]

[ How strange. Hama has come to know cities since she's come to New Amsterdam, but this one is unknown to her, the horizon marked by unfamiliar shapes. She takes a moment to admire them, committing some to memory, before she stands up and —laughing from the pure joy of it—reaches up to catch snowflakes. They melt in her hand. ]

This is snow, isn't it? I've never seen snow before.

[ But there's more to the moment, isn't there? Hama's smile fades a little as she notices the rifle. ]

Are you killing someone tonight?

[ The question is a wary one, but Hama isn't precisely afraid. Not yet, anyway. ]

[unlucky7]

[Ginia likes the snow and hates it too. The picturesque qualities are undeniable. The soft flurries, the heavy blizzards, there's some idyllic quality watching through a window. Seeing everything covered in fluffy, pristine sheets of white. The world quiet, the soft cracks and crinkle of snow falling.

But the reality is snow is wet and cold and dealing with anything in snow is miserable. That, she doesn't voice to Hama. If this is her first time seeing snow, best to enjoy it.

Her head cocks at the second question. Part of the building bleeds away, a second building superimposed on top. Higher, windier, the wind whipping snow around in a frenzy. The two scenes bleed and overlap, but do not cross either. There's another Ginia, leaning dangerously over a railing with a rifle in hand. The only support comes from her legs wrapped around the bars of the railing. She leans out, aims, finger pulling back on the trigger and -

Just as quickly, the other scene disappears, leaving the two of them alone on the rooftop.]

I killed someone once. But tonight?

[Ginia taps ash off the end of her cigarette. The grey flecks fall but never hit the ground. Her cigarette is no shorter even as she takes another drag.]

I don't know. I can't remember why I'm here.

Wildcard

[unlucky7]

[Feel free to throw a prompt here, or PM here, at cordially, or on Discord at Catamari#6352 to plot things out!]

morning runs (just before arrivals)

[hardwearing]

[ They never plan to meet. It's just become this unspoken thing, that whoever makes it to this particular corner on their morning run first will linger, stretch, wait for the other to catch up. Wash doesn't even know where Angela begins her runs from, though it's safe to assume she knows he leaves from the Safehouse at a certain time. Then they finish their workout together, and sometimes get proper breakfast. It's... nice, to have a routine with someone, even if he barely knows her. Even if it's risky. Wash needs this kind of thing.

This morning he's the one here first, bracing his foot on the side of a lamppost to stretch out his hamstrings idly. He hears her coming up behind him before he sees her, and turns to see if he's right. When her smile and head of curly hair confirms it, Wash starts jogging in place to warm back up while she reaches him. ]

Morning, Angela.

[unlucky7]

[It's a dangerous thing having a routine. She's a sniper. She's taken out plenty of people based on knowing exactly which coffee shop they'd go to when. Yet there's a comfort in the routine she's built up in New Amsterdam. There's a comfort in seeing people and spending time with them. She doesn't know David well, but she likes him enough. He's good company, even if sometimes the sight of him out of the corner of her eye pricks at poor memories.

But he is not a part of her past. Ginia smiles and waves as she jogs over his way, already signing once she's in range.]

Morning, David. I have to say, it's good being back in New Amsterdam.

hospital aftermath;

[powerofgod]

( ephemera had asked it of him, but he goes equally as much out of a genuine affection for angela herself.

he is sitting at her side whenever she wakes, posture lax, hands folded in his lap. once she acknowledges his presence — )

Angela.

( it's said softly, by way of a greeting. )

cw suicidal ideation

[unlucky7]

[Ginia wakes from death peacefully and rested, vaguely aware it shouldn't feel so nice and easy. It reminds her of the other times, waking up into a world that had continued on without her. And a few times she wished the world had continued on and she hadn't woken up, but the parameters of her life were different and not entirely in her control.

Maybe her current life isn't either. Ginia wakes from death and stares up at the ceiling, appreciating the general silence around her. She's content to continue staring and reflecting on the choices that brought her to this position, ignoring the messages blinking urgently, but she can feel the presence of someone nearby. Ginia turns her head, expecting someone from the hospital monitoring her, instead seeing Godric.

Oh. Ephemera must have contact him. There are equal parts anger and comfort in conflict with each other. Because how dare Ephemera get someone else involved, but also Ephemera didn't want her to wake up alone and that's...

If he didn't want her to wake up alone, maybe he shouldn't have stabbed her. Ginia swallows her disbelief, her anger, her grief. Squishes all of it down into the cracks of her body where it can solidify into cement.]

Godric.

[She doesn't even feel sluggish or weighty. It's almost an insult coming back so clean.]

What are you doing here?