open.

[buile]

WHO: Mad Sweeney and those not tall enough for this ride.
WHERE: Maurtia Falls.
WHEN: Throughout the month of August.
WHAT: Stealing a car, shots shots shots, and an early morning hang over. Feel free to hit me up if you have other ideas or specifics.
WARNINGS: Mad Sweeney.

2: 47 AM;

[ There's a shitty car, in a shitty parking lot, with a big shadow presiding over it.

Chainlink fencing and a cowboy-themed bar that would be shining neon would it were open make up the rest of the surroundings, and the noise of Maurtia Falls is a dim background whine. Blocked off from street view, Mad Sweeney's attentions to his surroundings is split between a guarded wariness and focus on the task at hand, levering the car hood open, tugging something free within it.

Next, the driver's door, jimmied open with just a muttered; ] C'mon, you fucker.

[ There's one last glance around before he moves to sit half inside of it, big hands exposing the wires beneath the wheel. This is likely as good a time as any to make an approach, whether it's to join in or enact some heroism. Calling the cops is so boring, isn't it? ]

9: 33 PM;

[ It's a rowdy little universe within this given a bar, an establishment that is not reinventing the wheel with its conventions of neon signage, of soft-core pornography displayed on fishbowl television sets, of a pool table and sticky floors, of a dart board and regulars all affixed to the edge of the bar. Mad Sweeney himself is an expected addition. Jacket and shirt shed, he's stripped to the waist save for a sweat-stained undershirt and old world suspenders.

Currently, he commands a corner, featuring a low table, charged shot glasses, and a gathered crowd of onlookers as the next challenger sits down in front of him.

They lock hands, elbows set against the table, other arms hidden behind their backs. It's not quick work, but eventually, the tide turns, and Sweeney -- teeth bared, wild eyed -- forces the other man's hand backwards, to slam down hard enough on the wooden surface that the shots of liquor set there all jump together. The spectators' cheer is indiscriminate of whoever wins, scattered with laughter, sodden with liquor, and with a gesture from the loser, Sweeney's beer is refilled.

He knocks a shot of something into it, sitting back hard enough to rock his chair onto two legs as he drains several mouthfuls in one swoop, a trickle streaming out the corner of his mouth. It's set down with a thump, rolling his shoulders in preparation for whoever is next keen to buy him more beer. ]

6: 11 AM;

[ But what the fuck is this place?

The days and the nights all sort of slump into one another, and it's almost for the sake of disruption that, upon realising that the sun is rising, Mad Sweeney makes a detour and finds himself on the banks of a river. He sits on gravel and earth and weeds choking up and into the cool dawn air, elbows on knees and rolling tighter a hand-rolled cigarette, twisting where it's sealed without yet lighting up. He watches the urban river, full of shit and garbage and lazy motion.

A graze on his face and swollen knuckles and grit beneath his fingernails, wiry hair in wild upright tufts like a cat petted backwards, he doesn't make for the most compelling company.

Eventually, he gets out his network device. There's several cracks running through the screen. He's barely turned it on all month, but it glows to life, offering distraction, while the worst of sobriety creeps back up on him. ]

Comments

near a townhouse in maurtia falls. closed to gwen wynne-york.

[buile]

[ If the landscape of Maurtia Falls has changed out from lively urban living and sleepy suburbs, this isn't for Mad Sweneey to notice as he marches dutifully down neat sidewalks beneath a full moon. The occasional swerve hits him, as if inebriation really did involve wind and three-sheets, but he has much practice in staying upright in remarkable circumstances, and this circumstance isn't even that.

Except for the girl he has on his shoulder, hemmed in with his arm around her knees. And he is singing. ]

♪ I'll go home to me ma, confess what I've done, ♪ and I'll ask her to pardon her prodigal son, ♪ [ is mostly at a mumble around a half-smoked cigarette, squinting at the faces of buildings as they go. ] ♪ And when she has kissed me as oft-times before, I never will play the wild rover no more... ♪

♫ And it's no, nay, neverrr, ♫ [ comes up with the enthusiasm that all good drinking songs must upon hitting the chorus, other arm out. ] ♫ No, nay, never, no more, and I'll play the wild rover-- ♫

Would you stop fuckin' squirming? I'll lose you in a hedge and no one'll be the wiser.

[trouvaille]

I am - I am too big to get lost in a hedge, I am like, a grown woman -

( who is presently swinging upside down like a sack of potatoes over Sweeney's shoulder, which was possibly inevitable from the moment she'd thought it was a good idea to try and out-drink him. She does not, particularly, recall what had made that such a great idea in the first place; in her life she's successfully out-drunk literally no one, because while the spirit is willing, the flesh - despite gamely practising at every opportunity - has the alcohol tolerance of something that definitely should not be given alcohol.

This hasn't involved any crimes, though, so there's that.

She squints at his arse. Then at the street ahead of her. )

We're going the wrong way, Paddy.

[buile]

Who's fault is that, you fuckin' wagon?

[ Sweeney has stopped, making a face at the street as if to hold it responsible, or something of it is offensive innately. The suburbs don't suit him, in any case, and it all looks the fucking same.

Then something occurs to him. He turns around, and takes a few steps backward. ]

How's your GPS now?

2 47

[knaval]

[thump thump thump thump

that's the sound a giant robot makes as he decides to check out what the weird little guy is doing.

maybe sweeney sees riptide (not unlikely; he's several stories tall) before he gets to the car, maybe ritpide manages to sneak up on him because he's engrossed in what he's doing. either way, this ends with a giant face up in the car's windscreen. yellow optics peering curiously.]

Isn't that against the law?

[buile]

[ Half within the car, head bowed to his work, Sweeney goes still at the reverberation of heavy, heavy foot steps coming nearer, causing the car's frame to shudder with it and sway on its wheels.

Then, light through the wind shield, and for a moment, he imagines flashlights, and awkward questions.

He's half right.

In his hands, wires spark to no effect, and he jerks bodily. ]

Fucking hell--

[ He reverses, spilling out of the car, while keeping huddled against it as he stares up at the whatever this fucking thing is. Registers what he says, and switches gears with a hiss of-- ]

--keep your fucking voice down.

[knaval]

[POINTEDLY LOUDER:] Why?

[riptide is leaning forward on all fours and shifts his hand - the size of a car in its own right - next to sweeney.

honestly, he has no intentions of playing the hero here, he's just enjoying fucking with the guy.]

You didn't answer my question.

6:15 AM;

[flightforfreedom]

[Poe couldn't sleep. This wasn't that new. He'd never had a great sleep schedule - flying between planets at the drop of a hat did that - and instead of sleeping through the night he'd slept through most of the afternoon the day before. You know. Helpful. So now he was just Out. Everything was closed, but that didn't matter to him. He was exploring - trying to memorise the terrain of this planet by sight as he flew over it. Maurtia Falls was just the newest destination to discover, and he'd spent much of the night gliding over it on a carpet that he had re-purposed into a flying vehicle. Look, if Aladdin could do it, so could he.

He was following the River mostly just to see where it went. It was not a very pretty river, but then, he'd been to Coruscant. At least they had rivers here. What he did not expect to see was someone sitting at it's banks.

Curiosity was a dangerous thing.

He carefully angled the carpet down, hovering about twenty feet above the stranger. Double checking to make sure it wasn't Hux (he was getting very wary of redheads) but once he was sure, then he called down.]

Was this your intended destination, or do you need a lift?

[buile]

[ Mad Sweeney looks up to find a man with perfect hair, on a flying carpet.

Listing back onto his elbows, he squints critically up at this spectacle, as if this were the exact sort of whimsy tailor made to irritate him. Not anger him, though, patient by virtue of fatigue as he turns both question and subsequent offer in his mind.

Sure, why not.

Except for the fact it's a flying rug, beautiful man or no. ]

Depends, [ he says, only lifting his voice just enough to facilitate being heard. ] Will there be musical accompaniment? Do we kiss after?

[flightforfreedom]

[Poe waited through the assessment, looking more amused as the seconds passed. At the question, he leaned forward a little bit to glance off the rug.]

Generally I like a little more lead up to that kind of an excursion. Sounds more like a Second Flight kind of deal. [He gave an amused, lopsided grin.]

Though you're welcome to sing if you feel the need.

6:11

[itistolaugh]

[ Harley is far and away a night owl, like anyone from Gotham, and when she can afford to she doesn't bother going to bed at all. Too much energy to burn, too many inconvenient responsibilities to avoid, any little thing at all can send her running over rooftops in another state until sunrise. This is one of those nights. She's covered in sweat and city grime, and a poorly judged jump scraped her knees. But she feels better than she looks and heads to a quiet(ish) part of the city with no buildings to scale or alleys to leap over for a cool-down before she heads home for a shower and a day in bed.

Someone is already there, which is a little annoying, but the network device sets him apart as another imPort. And a stranger is just a friend you haven't met you. She jogs quietly on her path and stops behind him. ]

You look like shit.

[buile]

[ Ears pricked to the sounds of footfalls, Sweeney doesn't immediately acknowledge whoever's approaching him. Potentially in the hopes they fuck kindly off.

They do not, but that it's a girl-voice stands her in some better stead. He twists to look, a sort of minimal peripheral take that-- he then puts more work into, tipping aside to get a better look. He knows this one, names and faces shuffled together in his memory, made distinct for virtue of, well.

Context.

His laugh is quiet, brief, and parched in sound. He speaks, then, with the kind of lilting Irish that washed up on teh shores of the United States a long time ago. ]

That's a shame, seein' as I came here to pick up chicks.

[itistolaugh]

[Harley looks around as she runs through stretches, twisting and curving to get all the knots out of her muscles before she sits in the grass. It's for her own benefit, but it's not a bad show either.]

Slim pickings for that here. But no competition either, so at least you've got that in your favor.

[The gravel is hard through her leggings, and the grass is damp with morning dew, but the morning breeze is nice on the back of her neck where the sweat-drenched hair clings to skin. She reties her ponytail high and tight before offering a hand.]

Harley Quinn.

2:47 AM

[stretchy_girl]

[Flying around over Maurtia Falls at night, Gemini flaps her wings lazily, the movement carrying her crow body into a thermal, carrying her upwards as she brooded and tried to forget just how utterly mind-numbingly bored she was. It was entirely possible that she would have been flying around all night were it not for a flash of movement from what should be a deserted parking lot catching her attention.

Angling her wings, Gemini dives downward, realisation dawning as she got closer as to what was happening. Well, this should break up her night nicely. Descending, the bird lands behind one of the parked cars at the other side of the lot, and a moment later a man in the uniform of the Maurtia Falls Police Department emerges, pulling out his gun as he advances towards the car and its would be thief.]

You in the car freeze! Show me those hands!

[buile]

[ You've got to be fucking kidding.

But maybe not, considering the run of his luck, and it being too much to fuckin' ask that such a curse not follow him across dimensions. Sweeney lifts his hands as a matter of instinct, twisting an awkward look around with wild eyes past a denim-clad shoulder.

That sure is a cop. Just the one. So much for Maurtia Falls being the naughty city. Though maybe it still is. ]

Alright, [ he says, voice lifting, an edge of irritation within surrender. Being something of a giant, he's in no rush to inspire itchy trigger fingers. ] Alright, fuck.

[ He reverses out of the car, hands to be seen. Fingers wiggle. ]

You ain't got a friend with you? Should take that up with your local representative, I reckon.

[ He doesn't sound suspicious so much as opportunistic. Easier to make a gamble with just the one of these fuckers. ]

[stretchy_girl]

[The cop edges closer as the crook gets out of the car, his gun not wavering despite Sweeney's size.

It had been hard to see how big he was from up in the air and their previous conversation via the network, but colour Gemini impressed, although she or rather he at the moment doesn't show it.]

Shut up asshole I didn't say you could talk! Put your hands on the car where I can see them NOW or I will shoot you!

[One of the officer's hands goes down to his belt, handcuffs clinking as he un-clips them and warily edges closer.]

the iron throne. closed to jorah mormont.

[buile]

[ It's not the kind of place that Mad Sweeney goes to have fun, exactly.

I mean, it is, but there are different kinds of fun, and this kind is the dire sort, being alone in a titty bar and it ain't even his birthday. What little legitimate money he has is carried off in garter belts and knickers in a steady procession, and the rest is traded for another steady procession of drink, a cyclical regime of beer, and Southern comfort and cokes. It's a race, and he is winning.

He's also been behaving himself, being the sort of man for whom only a few societal rules stick, and 'don't touch the strippers' is definitely one of them, this having long ago penetrated his remarkably thick skull. Drunk is as drunk does, though. So too does existential crisis, the kind that's been going on for about three centuries, now.

He lands back at the bar, producing some more crumpled dollar bills, barely having time to lay them flat on the bartop before the bartender instructs him not to bother, he's had enough. ]

Don't be giving me that, [ is immediate complaint, slurrier and Irisher than he was a half hour ago. ] I'm a card carrying VI fucking P, just ask what's his tits.

[ He's had free entry for the past month, now, though has been something of an infrequent visitor. Free entry doesn't mean you won't be emptying your fucking wallet, on account of the conceit of the place, but it's his last evening of this particular grace period, and there's really only one way to improve upon it.

In his opinion. ]

[khaleesipls]

[ Would Lord Baelish have rescinded his offer had he realized he was haggling with a great ginger ogre? Not likely. It’s Ser Jorah Mormont who has to contend with the consequences -- and he’s been counting the days.

Tonight he’s in full armor.

As much of a fixture as he’s become around the place, he’s rarely out on the floor, stirring from the shadows near the bar only as often as he has to help undesirables out through a side door. Weathered and grey as he is, in dark leather and battered steel, most natives don’t stand a chance once they’re deep enough in their cups to get themselves into trouble. They can’t hit him hard enough.

Down the bar, Sweeney’s gorilla hands flatten out bills, and Jorah can already taste blood on his teeth. ]

It’s twelve-thirty seven, [ he says, matter-of-fact, and pushes his own overturned glass across the bar. The bartender sweeps away to take it, along with the nudge of a leather watch under the old knight's palm. ]

Your card expired half an hour ago.

[buile]

[ Sweeney makes a slow pivot against the elbow down on bartop as he tips a look at Jorah-- and then takes him in more wholly for what he is, glint of steel and all, but it's clear confusion rather than intimidation, before this flatlines into something else. Focus, of a kind.

He has on cotton and denim and the trace remains of his last cigarette, and a yellow smiley face pin hidden beneath a lapel. ]

Do I look like fuckin' Cinderella to you? You'd like to escort me kindly to my pumpkin carriage?

[ Rather than attempt to dismiss Jorah, he's drawn up his posture, claiming the territory beneath his feet. ]

Because you've not even invited me to dance.

6:11;

[itssacrifice]

[Andrew enjoys flying early in the morning, chasing the first rays of sunshine and charging up. He doesn't care where he flies, he just idly follows the sun as it brightens up the sky. Sometimes he ends up flying over areas that less than scenic, although the river has a certain pleasantness of its own.

The red haired man squatting on the bank of the river though...he's not very pleasant at all. Andrew nearly flies on, but the fact that he hasn't seen his newest roommate practically since he moved in, he's curious.

He lands a few feet away from the other man, the stench of alcohol wafting off of him strongly.]

I thought I was going to find you in a dumpster somewhere eventually. Congratulations on not being a total stereotype.

[buile]

Congrats on being a close-minded floating fuck.

[ Borderline amiably. Even if their interactions have been brief, and sparse, there's a certain expectation as to the way Sweeney's mouth works.

Or maybe he's picked enough fights for one night, venom depleted from their sacs. ]

Dumpsters're a bad deal. No one wants to be that bit of the morning paper about unfortunate homeless wanker crushed to death in garbage truck.

[itssacrifice]

You speaking from experience?

[Their previous interaction might have been brief, but it was more then enough for them to fall into a pattern of exchanging barbs. Sarcasm is practically Andrew's second language so the words tend to flow from his mouth without second thought.]

Seriously, though. Why are you all the way out here when you have a perfectly good bed waiting for you?

2:47am

[twatter]

[ It's out here in the dead of night when they meet each other -- Technical Boy on his club hopping spree and Sweeney, well, showing he was such an upstanding gentleman trying to jack a car. The technological god watches impassively. Yeah, he knows who this guy is. He's one of Odin's. One of Odin's lesser recruits, but a recruit all the same.

But here and now, he's alone. So is Technical Boy. Which is just about the only reason he's even wasting a breath on someone like Sweeney. ]

Broken down interior. Chipping paint. Not even automatic windows? Ugh. [ He says with a little shudder of disgust. ] Bet it doesn't even have AC. Definitely not worth all that effort you're going to.

[ He brings his vape pen to his lips, a waft of smoke blown in Sweeney's direction. ]

At least steal one that plays more than cassette tapes. You'll be thanking me later.

[buile]

[ The sound of a voice -- any voice -- has Sweeney immediately going still in his yanking out the wires from beneath the wheel. The sound of a voice -- that voice -- is a little like an ice cube dropped down the back of denim jacket, and he swivels his head around to stare at

this fucking guy.

Sweeney's expression is borderline offended, and ever wild eyed. He abandons the wires to scrape himself up onto his feet, the beginnings of a snarl bracketing his mouth. ]

And micro GPS locators bouncing tattled tales off of fucking satellites, [ is his contribution. ] I ain't so strapped as to fuck with that, ta very much.

[ Christ. His fingers twitch, feet rooted to the spot, unsure exactly what he's braced for -- because look at this little shitheel -- but braced anyway. ]

You come in like the rest of us?

2:47

[pummelgranite]

[She comes out of the pitch blackness across the way. If hes paying attention, she comes from a direction with no doors, but. yknow. hes probably not paying attention.

Five feet and three inches of unnaturally beatiful young woman leans on the hood of the car, next to him. She smells like grave dirt and cigarette smoke and too-ripe fruit. ]

You're stealing a car.

[buile]

[ He's paying enough attention, enough to sense a sort of spatial, temporal gap between an empty parking lot and then suddenly, company. Sweeney stops what he's doing, metal jammed between glass and door, an uneasy shift of battered knuckles around the grip.

Then, with a protesting creak of metal on metal, Sweeney levers the door open. ]

That sounds illegal, [ he says, sliding the jemmy back up one denim sleeve. ] Could be I left my keys inside.

[ That he ducks down to get at the wires under the wheel probably puts that ambiguity to rest.

From below, without pause; ]

It ain't yours, now, is it?