[open]

[nostalgiabomb]

WHO: Star-Lord Peter Quill and whoever!
WHERE: Heropa and elsewhere
WHEN: Feb 24th to the 27th
WHAT: CHERRY BOMMMMMMB er that is mind clone shenanigans
WARNINGS: violence idk


[ One of the perks of working in a pawn shop is the sheer amount of stuff available to Peter at any given moment. Tape decks, record players, random appliances -- whatever he needs, it's practically at his fingertips.

It's why he has a sheathed knife tucked behind him, hidden beneath his jacket.

This morning he left the house angry and annoyed, with a weird pressure building behind his temples. It was like waking up, knowing he had dreamt, but forgetting entirely what he dreamt about -- and it was seriously pissing him off. He spent most of the morning with that weird feeling just beyond his reach, and then something clicked into focus. It was so friggin' obvious: the imPorts were the problem.

And he had itched for something to hold in his hand after that revelation, and only something sharp and lethal seemed to do the trick; he wishes he had knowledge enough of poisons to coat the blade in something, but this will have to suffice for now.

After an aborted attempt at murder in the pawn shop, Peter's taken to wandering Heropa, then wandering his way into other areas. Any imPort he encounters will be treated to a haughty look, his lip curling in disgust -- and should they make the unfortunate mistake of turning their back on him, Peter will be unsheathing his knife and lunging at them. ]

Comments

for charlie maxwell;

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Peter Quill is in a shit mood.

Like, more shit than his usual shit moods.

Like, he seriously might actually punch someone, shit mood.

He woke up with a strange pulsing in his head, the sort of sharp ache reserved exclusively for hangovers, only he hadn't even had the satisfaction of a long night of drinking. Weirdly enough, he still ends up clocking in at work; something about staying in the government-provided housing just didn't sit well with him. But as he sits behind the counter, the throb reverberates in his temples, travels down his neck, makes his fingertips itch.

For lack of anything better to do and in hopes of expending that weird, antsy feeling, he's actually working, cleaning the swords and knives they have on display. He's evidently commandeered one of the tape decks to play his mix tape in the background. ]

[animated]

[ Charlie has been meaning to come talk with Peter for a while now- they haven't spoken since right after the whole bridge incident- but schedules never really aligned.

But he finds himself with an afternoon free and decides he may as well swing by the pawn shop. He gives Peter a little wave as he walks in the door. ]

Wow, look at you. I thought all you did all day was sit around with your feet on the counter.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ For a moment, all Peter can muster is a low level glare. ]

'Course I don't. This job is friggin' boring enough as it is.

[animated]

[ He frowns a little, caught off-guard by the look on Peter's face ]

It was just a joke, man. Take it easy.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He huffs out a breath, annoyed; he puts one knife away to grab another, pulling over a sharpening stone. ]

Yeah, comin' in here and sayin' I'm lazy is real hilarious, dude.

for rocket;

[nostalgiabomb]

[ It's pretty late at night -- or early in the morning, depending on how you look at it -- when Peter sends Rocket a text.

At first, it says simply this: ]

where are you

[ After a minute or two, it's followed with this: ]

how many bombs you got

aww look it's for meeeeee

[rocketsmodernlife]

[ rocket tends to naturally wake up a little more at night anyway, so he's actually awake working on stuff. at least this time he's doing it in his room - less mechanical mashing, more electronic embroidery. yes, i needed the alliteration that badly.

so anyway, he doesn't really even look over until the second text, because if it's important, people will send multiple messages.

he's vaguely surprised peter is asking this series of questions but, okay, he'll bite. ]

what kind u need?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ For his part, Peter's still out in the streets of Heropa, looking for imPorts to take care of; but now that it's late, and hardly anyone is out wandering, he's decided to change tactics.

Probably best to send a message to those who support imPorts as well, right? ]

the kind that can blow up a building

gonna need several

not picky otherwise

[rocketsmodernlife]

of course i do

[ technically he's more interested in getting whatever process started here quickly than seeing why quill's actually doing it. he might consider something like. eh. crime or how much quill would gripe about a "bad decision" or whatever later. ]

where u at?

[bleakmidwinter]

[Unfortunately for Caitlin, she looks like an easy target. Female traveling alone, dressed in period-appropriate clothing, the sleeve of which has ridden up a little at the wrist, revealing the edge of her imPort tattoo in the dark. She doesn't look particularly dangerous - actually, her main goal tonight is just book-shopping. She has a shopping bag with a couple scientific journalsh.

Her gaze happens to meet Peter's before quickly going back to what's in front of her, her walk maybe a little faster than a moment before, if only because she's not interested in having any conversations with the guy.]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ It's just as well, because Peter's not particularly interested in conversations, either.

He recognizes the clothes as being particularly modern, sees the glow of that all too familiar tattoo, and something flares in him -- disgust, anger, hate -- and he thinks, A problem to be dealt with.

Once she's a few paces away, he turns and follows. He's not particularly subtle about it, either, not bothering to match her steps to hide his footfalls. The knife catches the lamplight as he unsheathes it, and soon he's lashing out, aiming to stab her in the back while she's still turned. ]

[bleakmidwinter]

[She catches a glint of light off the knife -

She's not a hero, she's not a fighter, she twists around to see what's happening but all that means is that his knife slices through her side instead of going through her back. She screams, a mixture of pain and shock and fear, and throws her bag of journals at him, anything to distract him. Part of her knows, though, subconsciously triggers her best defense.

Her skin blanches, going several shades too pale for even a corpse, and a slight ice-like sheen covers it. She holds up her hands like she's blocking something and there's suddenly a thin sheet of ice between the two of them and another block forming around his feet and legs to hold him in place while Caitlin turns on her heel and runs.]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He bats the books away easily enough, scowling when he doesn't manage to get the killing blow like he'd expected.

Peter moves toward her, and then she's-- paling? Shimmering? Whatever it is, it's fucking weird, and he won't let it distract him. But then a chill is running up his feet, and he nearly topples when he's suddenly stopped.

-- What the fuck?

He realizes too late that she's frozen him in place, and he makes an aggravated noise when she runs. Not the easy target he'd thought she'd be, then; he's lucky she didn't turn him into a block of ice instead of just temporarily immobilizing him.

So he blinks out of existence, reappears just a few feet away from the sheet of ice on the street, briefly considers teleporting after her, then decides against it. Too much trouble. ]

[captainpissoff]

[Fish and chips, Edward reasoned as he walked away from the harbour after a day out on the boat, were really one of the few things he was starting to enjoy about his current predicament. Sure the rum was lousy, he was still no closer to figuring out how he could get ahead in this time and place or what the best course of action was, but he could come away with a few positives:

Hot and cold running water.

Air conditioning.

Fish and chips.

Even so, as he makes his way to a bar before he heads home, a walking anachronism in 18th century breeches and boots with his hair caked in salt from sea spray and his hood cast back, there's that same restlessness gnawing at him, that same longing for something that he doesn't know how to act upon. Perhaps he's homesick.

Perhaps he just needs a drink.]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Peter passes the guy, giving him a quick once over. The dude's clothes definitely mark him as different.

Peter's mind helpfully supplies, imPort.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth -- because the guy clearly doesn't belong here. None of the imPorts do; they're wasting valuable space and resources, and everyone's fucking bending over backwards to accommodate them. And why? Because some stupid machine happened to give them powers? At their roots, the fuckers have caused more problems than they've solved. What's the goddamn point of them?

His lips pull from his teeth in a sneer as Edward walks past, hand clenching into a fist to keep himself from reaching for his knife too soon. ]

[captainpissoff]

[The hair on Edward's neck seems to prickle as he walks by, in much the same way he recognises when a Lobster's paying too much attention to the undergrowth he's hidden in or when he's waiting for a bull shark to launch itself at his harpooning boat. He slows his chewing and pauses, looking back over his shoulder at the man for a split second and spotting the sour look on his face.

Odd.

Not uncommon, but odd when he's not knowingly crossed paths with this man before.]

Have you stepped in something foul mate or do we have a problem?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ A few paces away, Peter was reaching for the knife tucked behind him, beneath his jacket, but-- Damn. The guy turned around too fast.

His jaw ticks when he turns to regard the imPort (can't quite hide that), but his hands, at least, are loose at his sides. If Edward gets the impression that Peter is looking down his nose at him, he probably wouldn't be wrong -- he has definitely has a sort of holier-than-though expression on his face.

(Fucking imPorts.) ]

Passed something foul, definitely. That's my main problem.

[darkpants_warmfeeling]

[Jacob is back in Heropa for a day to check out whether some of the Future Foundation's research could be useful in repairing any of the damage unleashed by the Hornets previously. So far it hasn't been a particularly fruitful trip. He always prefers to leave the research end of things to his colleagues- they're better qualified for these judgments than he is. Seeing the burned buildings and assorted other damage from the lightning strikes leaves a bad taste in his mouth. But all that is forgotten for the moment when he spots a guy he's spoken to on the Network passing on the street.]

Hey, hold on a second. You look familiar.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He's glaring at Jacob as he's approaching -- he recognizes him. Space military guy, something like that. He remembers commiserating about the lack of artificial gravity or something like that.

What a stupid thing to worry about.

And then Jacob's stopping him, and he huffs out a breath. He was hoping he could get past him, use the element of surprise to stab him in the back. Apparently not, this time. He tries to school his expression into something neutral (which is no easy feat, seeing as how everything in him is screaming at him to take the guy out). ]

Do I? I get that a lot. One of those faces, you know.

[darkpants_warmfeeling]

[Jacob raises an eyebrow. What's with the huffing? Maybe his fellow space-dude is just having a bad day or something. Or maybe he has actually got the wrong guy.]

You mean you're not Peter? I could swear I talked to you on the Network before.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ -- Damn. He does remember Peter. He was hoping he could slip away anonymously and try an attack on a different person.

He takes a second to peer at the imPort, as if trying to place his face, then-- ]

Oh, right. Jacob, yeah? Sorry. Not all there today.

backdated to the 26th

[stealwithit]

[ Kasumi hadn't shown herself anywhere since the evening of the 24th, when someone she knew and respected and really admired suddenly turned and--well, threw her around downtown. Kasumi could barely do anything against Samara's powerful biotics until she saw the tiniest sliver of an opportunity to escape, took it, and ran. It could have gotten much, much worse, as she looked back over her shoulder, cloaked, at the Justicar diverting her newfound thirst for destruction to damaging property.

Needless to say, when she finally emerges from hiding two days later, she's still nursing the bruises and injuries she sustained from that encounter. She's got a mind to just keep hiding until she or Shepard figures out what the hell was going on, but by nightfall she couldn't stand to sit still anymore.

She's made her way over downtown to check on the shop that surely got an undeserved taste of Samara's wrath, and stands outside of said shop, her arms folded and head bowed down in thought as she continues to process what had happened here. She seems almost unapproachable in her stance, but she spots a familiar face out of the corner of her eye. Funny, how she feels her mood lifted ever so slightly by the sight of someone she might call a new friend, here. Things aren't exactly peachy within the Normandy crew, after all. ]

kasumi no

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He recognizes her instantly, of course -- the hood she wears kind of makes her stick out in a way it's surely not meant to do. Maybe something about trying to stay inconspicuous makes you all the more noticeable? Something like that.

Either way, he feels that all too familiar flare of-- something. Anger, hate, disgust -- all of it aimed at her being a fucking imPort, one of the countless people wasting space and resources, just taking and taking and taking, without really contributing anything except wasted lives and encouraging complacency and laziness.

What a bunch of assholes.

He wonders if Charlie warned Kasumi about him already; if he had, would she just be standing there, watching as he approached? Wouldn't she be trying to avoid him? Sure, her body language totally said "fuck off," but maybe it's a trick. Maybe it's a trap.

Peter's step falters at that thought, but he presses on. He'll take the risk, he figures, and if things go south, he can teleport away. So he sidles up beside her, his expression schooled into something pleasant and neutral; all the while, his fingers itch to reach for the knife hidden behind him. ]

If it isn't my favorite collector.

[stealwithit]

[ She casts him a side glance, a small smile, before she averts her gaze back ahead of her, at the shop. ]

Well, if isn't mine.

[ A beat, then: ]

What are you doing out and about town, Quill?

[nostalgiabomb]

You know. Wanderin'. Seein' the sights.

[ Trying to take out as many imPorts as he can before he gets caught. ]

The usual.

What about you? Window shopping?