Peter Quill (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nostalgiabomb) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2015-02-25 07:59 pm
nostalgiabomb) wrote in maskormenacelogs2015-02-25 07:59 pm
[open]
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. ]
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
Well excuse me shitbird, but if I'm foul then I'd suggest you look in a fucking mirror.
[Edward's hands- fish and chips not withstanding- are fairly innocuous at his sides, but the leather bracers he sports are far less innocent. He may not have earned his right to sport the blades of a full fledged Assassin in the traditional sense, but he's been wearing them long enough that using the hidden blades is instinctive enough to him to put up a good fight.]
no subject
Well-built. Scarred. A look on his face that says he's looking for a fight. All in all, he's the kind of person Peter might encounter at a dingy, out of the way bar. Also the kind of person who'd pick a fight at a dingy, out of the way bar.
So it's about par for the course, he figures.
But the guy's an imPort, which means he has to be careful about this -- he doesn't know what bullshit abilities the guy has, and he no longer has the element of surprise. Not right now, anyway. ]
All you assholes are the same. Think you're better than everyone else, just 'cause some stupid machine popped you here and gave you powers.
no subject
Unfortunately, he's not come out with his pistols, and his swords are stashed away at home.
What he does take offence to is the bloke's reasoning. He blinks a second, then laughs humourlessly, spreading his arms with an exaggerated shrug.]
What? You think me winding up in this sodding place makes me any better than anyone else? You're barking up the wrong tree, sonny jim. If I'm better than anyone it'll be through my own making, not some poxy machine.
no subject
But evidently he's done talking, though a lot of things come to mind, settle on the tip of his tongue before he finally opts to stay silent: You're all a waste of space. You hurt more than you help. You're all better off dead.
Why waste his breath on skeevy looking bastard like this? There are better things could be doing right about now.
Like unsheathing his knife at long last, the blade long, wicked, and serrated. Nevermind that they're in public, and nevermind that Peter has two perfectly good blasters holstered at his hips; they don't seem to satisfy nearly as well as the knife does.
And while Peter might be done with small talk, he shoots Edward a smirk. The message is clear enough: Come at me, bro. ]
no subject
Oh well.
He cocks his head, bends his knees and spreads his weight evenly. For all intents and purposes, he looks unarmed and incredibly stupid, unintimidated and unarmed while he's staring down a man who's threatening him with a knife.]
Pretty piss poor excuse for a knife you've got there boyo. Let's see if you know how to use it.
[Message received and understood: he runs at him.]
no subject
It also doesn't exactly help that he's had few lessons with the use of a knife; under normal circumstances, he would be firing at Edward as he ran at him. As it is, some baser instinct is giving him the preference for Sharp Things, and to the knife he went.
As the man approaches, Peter lashes out with an inexpert slash, at least to maintain the distance between them. ]