maskormenacelogs | He was tired of being poor and he wasn't into selling door to door

Entry tags:

He was tired of being poor and he wasn't into selling door to door

WHO: TERRY and MITCHELL
WHERE: UH probably eventually somewhere secluded but to start out with, let's go with the park
WHEN: today.
WHAT: Mitch and Terry are going to be human disasters.
WARNINGS: drug use.

Mitchell Hundred didn't subscribe to certain things, like the importance of dates. He didn't really care one way or the other, but there were some things that the former Mayor needed, in a certain way, and when a deal happened, a deal happened. He couldn't afford to be as picky these days as he did back when he was running the City, or as Vice President, or any of the number of things that he should be doing right now. It was almost depressing, when he thought about it at length, which was why he was trying not to. Spare moments were too easy to find in this new world, and Mitchell struggled to do something else, to make sure that he filled every moment as best he could.

And in the midafternoon, he was walking through the park, hands shoved into his pockets, that familiar thread of anticipation and fear rushing through him. Here, he didn't have the power that he had back home. Going out, in the middle of the night, to the person he trusted to slide them cash and receive something in return was an exchange that he was familiar with, and the comfort that if it were to be caught, he could sweep it under the rug, if he absolutely had to, and if not, use it as a platform position. Mitchell Hundred, after all, had certain a need to cover all bases, have several plans of potential attack, and was the kind of person whol would absolutely make sure that there was little chance of being caught.

Here, there was still the medical need, the secret medical need, the one that he didn't talk about -- but there wasn't the power. He couldn't just get a prescription, and even so, he never would have. Those were too easy to find, and he couldn't have that.

So he had to skulk, with that promise pounding at his back, reminding him that if he was suspicious, he was in trouble. His steps were brisk, as he walked across the park, light jacket to cut the wind only, the pockets enough to at least keep his hands (and their contents) hidden. Ballcap to cover his head, while he walked, just the right pace, too slow to be rushed, but too quick to be without purpose.

He was really hoping he could just make it home with no interruptions, the more interruptions, the higher the chances for --

Well

He just had to keep walking.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Most of the time, Terry just preferred the quiet darkness of his room -- whenever he could spare the time between advising students and going to class. In a way, it was nice to be busy, to have things to occupy the clutter of his mind, but it was stressful too, being around other people. He'd never been very good at that, even before he discovered his powers. Sometimes it felt overwhelming. Suffocating. All their fears just whispering, whispering, whispering in the back of his head.

Sometimes he just needed the air.

He'd walked without any real destination, ending up somewhere in the park. It wasn't too bright out, which was always a plus in Terry's book, especially down in goddamn Florida -- but it was windy enough that he had his hood up, hands stuffed into his pockets as he walked. He didn't make eye contact. He didn't stop to dwell on anything. He just needed clear his head a bit.

Most of the fears he picked up transiently were minor things -- things he'd learned to brush off. Nobody felt anything especially strong, nothing that could really penetrate his thoughts fully. But as he passed a man on the path (ball cap, jacket, nothing remarkable at first glance) he felt a striking, piercing sensation of anxiety dance across his nerves -- the strongest thing he'd sensed all day.

It makes him just slightly lightheaded, catching him off guard. Without meaning to, he reaches out and catches the guy by his jacket sleeve, swaying slightly with the motion.

Mitchell hadn't been expecting anything, but a hand on his arm was enough to make him jump, almost out of his own skin. He hadn't been paying attention to who it was on the way, his goal and destination already mapped out. He'd always been just that cautious, that careful with his habits.

"Hey motherfu--" was all he got out, before his brain calmed himself down, tactical decisions taking place, realizing who and what it was. It wasn't a cop, it was a person, and an import on top of that. One he knew who it was, when his brain caught up with him, he relaxed, slightly. His eyes shifted one way, and then the other, like he was surprised that Terry was here alone.

"Oh, Terry. Shit, you surprised me," he started off, once he reigned himself in. Scared, he'd almost said, before he remembered their conversation, and censored himself.

It was possible, after all. Just a rare thing for Mitchell to do so.

Surprise -- that's what showed on Terry's face when the familiar sound of Mitch's voice penetrated the haze of the anxious fear he'd just read off of him. It took him a moment (deer staring into headlights, not fully grounded back in reality for a full second) before he seemed to shake it off, pupils shrinking as he focused back in.

"Sorry," he muttered the word more out of habit than anything else. His thoughts, at least, were clearing themselves up. This was a reminder to keep his guard up -- even a small, brief reading could be a trigger if he wasn't trying hard enough to be in control. "When you walked by me..."

He glanced up, skepticism touching his face.

"Are you okay?"

That would've been an odd, abrupt question maybe -- if they both didn't know what his powers were.

Alright? Oh, shit -- what was it Terry had said? That his powers were based on fear? Christ, there was no hiding from the kid, was there?

"Oh, I'm fine. I, ah, it's been a long fucking day," his voice, while a little distant, was still in the moment. His eyes were clear, and focused, he hadn't obviously done anything, but the way he shifted was still filled with that same sort of nervous energy he'd been giving off before. The former Mayor wasn't the sort that was used to being stopped during these kinds of moments, obviously.

"What are you doing out here? I never thought you were the kind to go out for walks."

Of course, he wasn't the one to talk, obviously.

He rubbed the back of his neck, and gave him a weak smile. "Sorry, that was probably rude."

"I'm not," he agreed, waving a dismissive hand at Mitch's apology in a half-distracted way. "I just needed to clear my head."

Still, having a long day definitely didn't explain the read Terry had gotten off of Mitch, but even if he hadn't been cursed with his father's stupid fear-based powers, the nervous shiftiness was a little bit of a giveaway. Terry eyed Mitch for a moment, clearly not buying the whole I'm fine deal, but also unsure if he was willing to be confrontational with this man while simultaneously knowing that they weren't close and remembering the talk they'd had in the coffee shop.

Finally, after a second, he went for it.

"You know I can tell something's up, right?"

"Ah," he paused. Yes, he remembered what Terry could do, and he knew he was still anxious, fearful of the... well, the always obvious possibility when he was holding. It wasn't much, and it wasn't something that was really going to ruin him, not really, and not here, he was too unknown, but he didn't have the clout to take care of it, either.

It left him feeling antsy, and concerned. He frowned, and shook his head, trying to play it off. Of course, this was Mitchell Hundred, and that meant -- essentially -- that he was lying.

"I promise, pal. It's nothing. Just thought I saw a big dog off its leash, earlier. They, ah, don't like me," he explained, his voice strong, but Terry, Terry Ward who could read fears could probably tell this wasn't the kind of fear that Mitchell felt about animals. Animals were terrifying, horrible things that left him running for his goddamn life.

This was something entirely different.

It was uncomfortable, knowing that the deal with the dog -- a fear that Terry read often and knew well -- wasn't exactly what he sensed off of Mitch. There was a choice there: let it go, or push. He wasn't sure that he exactly knew the man well enough to make a good decision, or if there was much of a good decision in an awkward position like this at all.

He exhaled, scrubbing his face with one hand. At least he didn't have much to lose.

"It wasn't a dog," he responded in a bit of a mutter, glancing off a bit. "Seriously, who the hell are you worried I'm gonna tell anyway?"

Mitch gave him a look, the soft that was coupled with a twist of his head. The kind that said that he didn't appreciate being called out on his lies, and Mitchell didn't. For just a moment, there was something darker there, something that said that the man was sharp and displeased.

But he masked it, his eyes narrowed, and then relaxed, and he shook his head. His lips twitched into a smile, and he there was a touch of a wince in his expression, something that spoke to the progression of true and real emotions.

"Just, ah, I was picking up a little self-medication," he finally replied, after a long fucking pause, trying to say something to get Terry to back off, to get him to realize that this was intensely private business he was intruding on.

Mitchell and his self-medication habits were deep-seated, important rituals. The only thing that offered him solace from his powers -- powers being something that Terry at least in part understood.

Shit.

Self-medication. Terry's teenage brain readily translated that to drugs. It made his mouth tighten a little at the corner -- but it wasn't judgment. He'd been around drug users before. Addicts, really. His best friend in high school. Former, multiple senses of the word. But then again, Mitch didn't have that kind of look about him. Mitch didn't read like the cocaine addict he'd known.

"That's it?" Terry finally asked, glancing back in Mitch's direction. "That's what you're so sketched out about?"

The eye contact didn't last. He lifted a hand to brush wild hair from his face instead.

"It's not a big deal. Honestly, dunno why I haven't tried it."

"And you shouldn't," he pointed out, hands still in his pockets, but the way he shifted, suggested he nearly pulled his hands out, just to gesture. "It's, ah, complicated. You don't want to do it without knowing what it'll do," he ventured, especially with Terry's powers.

Not that Mitch had shown that sort of restraint, but after months and months of being under morphine and vicodin, and no change. He could still hear the whispers in his head that nobody else could. He'd thought he'd been schizophrenic for far too long for him to believe doing something like a little grass would hurt.

And what did you know.

It helped.

"You remember when we talked about powers?" He didn't know what possessed him to be so forthcoming, other than the fact that Terry, in his own small way, understood.

Terry wasn't sure what to make of that question -- or what it might be a lead into. Of course he remembered their little talk, if only because he didn't exactly make a habit of discussing his powers with such seriousness, especially with people he didn't know particularly well. He still couldn't pinpoint exactly what compelled him to talk about it that day, except maybe he'd been craving some kind of understanding for a long time now.

Finally, out loud, he answered simply, "Yeah. I remember."

Honestly, he still thought about that conversation all the time.

"What about it?"

It was a bad excuse, and he knew it. That he used his powers as the excuse for getting high, but that's what it was. He needed the excuse, because for Mitchell, that was the sole reason. He could live without getting high every now and then, if it hadn't meant he'd lose his powers in the meantime.

He needed the quiet, to think. On his own terms.

"I, ah, my powers turn off, when..." he trailed off, lifting a shoulder like it should be obvious. He thought Terry would pick up on it, either way. He was a smart kid, after all, and context was pretty obviously laid out there.

Honestly, it was kind of brilliant. Smoke a little weed, get a little peace of mind, nobody has to get hurt, right? It wasn't actually as terrible of an excuse as Terry might have wanted it to be. Maybe if he hadn't been so high-strung over his powers, he would have tried the same thing ages ago. The closest thing he's probably felt was those brief, fleeting days or hours when Bradbury would turn his powers off for him.

He missed the silence. He missed having his own thoughts in his head instead of everyone else's.

"I get it," Terry finally answered, waving a hand dismissively as though it were no big deal. "And I don't blame you. Okay? So. Your secret's safe with me, or whatever."

"Yeah, ah, thanks," he said, dancing slightly on his feet. Honestly, Mitchell needed the peace and quiet as much as the next person -- probably more so. Most people wouldn't understand what it was like, to be assaulted day in and day out with the same kind of sound that he was. Bludgeoned with it over his head, really. Like that constant sound, never more than a few milliseconds before another repetition of the data that was so important to share.

Things like water levels, power percentages, internal servos and how long they had to be replaced.

Constantly.

"Did you ever try it? For ah, your little problem?" he winced, little wasn't really what he meant, but it sounded better than fucking making a mountain out of it, when he knew the guy probably didn't want to think about it.

"No," he answered almost immediately, not meaning to sound defensive exactly, but.

Again, after a beat, more slowly: "No."

If only it were just a little problem. Normally, he might comment to that affect -- but he suspects Mitch is just trying to play things down, to make the situation a bit friendlier. Besides, if anyone understood, it was this guy. That alone deserved Terry's best social behavior, though considering his baseline, maybe that wasn't saying much.

"Mostly I use teenage angst and government military camps." Dryness -- the best cover-up for any circumstances where he felt awkward. "Doesn't work that well, apparently." Another hesitation. "Does it really work for you?"

Mitchell shouldn't have been surprised, of course, that Terry hadn't tried it. If his ways of coping really revolved more around government military camps, that said a lot. It said a lot, that being on top, being in the government meant he could do it, but the kid slaving through the military couldn't.

Then again, Terry had practically grown up in the City, hadn't he? When he'd been in military camps, he wasn't exactly of the right age that he could actually be coping like this, and Mitch would be comfortable. Before, anyway.

Do as I say and not as I do was the kind of mantra he'd never understood as a kid, but wholly embraced as an adult. "Yeah, it does," he admitted, eyebrows lifting and mouth cocking into a grimace. "Silence is...a rare treasure these days, as I'm sure you know."

Maybe he was just too uptight for it -- everything revolved around his ability to stay aware, stay in control. He isolated himself. He shut the world out at every opportunity. But still. He did find an unexpected connection in Mitchell Hundred. And he couldn't deny that the idea of silence is appealing to him. It wasn't as if he could just keep asking Bradbury to turn off his powers every time he wanted some peace and quiet.

Terry huffed out an exhale, glancing away again. His voice dropped into a mutter.

"Yeah, I know." Another hesitation. "I'd joke about asking you to hook me up with your dealer, but then I might actually get serious about it."

Mitch laughed, something low and hesitant. He couldn't fault Terry, and he hadn't exactly wanted to share his solution, but when he was pressed, he couldn't exactly hide what his fears were, could he? He couldn't hide from Terry, and definitely not well.

He shook his head, hand still thrust into his pockets.

"Shit, have you tried everything else? I did morphine, painkillers, every prescription drug they could get to dull it, but none of them did it right. When I first got them, I was in the fucking hospital, I don't think I had a night's sleep for almost a fucking year before it was quiet enough."

He sighed, and shook his head, eyes shifting, always looking. "I can't imagine what it's like having that so early."

Terry dwelled on the answer a second -- even though really, he probably should've been able to respond right away, yes or no. Had he tried anything else? He'd tried a lot of self-loathing. And isolation. But that probably wasn't what Mitch was after.

"Tylenol for the headaches sometimes, I guess," he finally replied, glancing back at Mitch briefly to gauge his reaction. "Nothing's ever really made my head really feel like just mine though. Except Bradbury. He shut it off once or twice."

He exhaled, before going on a bit lamely, "I guess popping pills just seemed like too easy of a fix."

"Too easy to be true," he admitted. "At least for me. I'm sure Bradbury isn't bad, but I don't..."

He shook his head. Bradbury had shut him off before. When Vulcanus had attacked imports, and sent his powers into overdrive, he'd needed him to keep it quiet, lest he pop more blood vessels and rip his face open again.

"I don't know, it's too...visceral... when he does it," he paused, knowing that wasn't much of an explanation. Mitchell didn't know how to put it, so he grimaced, holding his hands deep in his pockets, and grimaced. How did he explain away the way his powers would shut off, but his brain was so used to going that it...kept going.

It was even more revealing, he thought, if he let on that the often spacey, distracted mayor had a reason, that his brain was constantly processing so much sound that it was a miracle he functioned still, these days, let alone planned and worked through the things he did.

Maybe it was sad that Rick Bradbury was the best father figure he'd ever known. The only one that ever really accepted him. It was terrifying, even for him, to think of the things he'd do to protect that man. After all that's happened between them, it was a harsh reality to realize that any day, the Porter could take Bradbury away from him. Some days, wanting to make Bradbury proud was the only thing that keeps him trying to be normal. And sane.

But he couldn't make Bradbury take care of him forever.

"He isn't around just to be my friggin' crutch anyway," Terry responded lowly at length, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I'm not a little kid. I have to figure out how to deal with this crap power on my own."

"At least you get the solace," he offered, nodding at him. "But yeah, I understand. You don't want --" he sighed.

Oh, he understood. He didn't have the same loyalty that Terry did toward Bradbury. He didn't care about him in the same way, but Mitch did care about him, in his own unique way. Something that he tried not to think about, and didn't dwell on. It was the kind of thing that kept him up at night, but he didn't say that, or share it. Nobody needed to know the specific details.

Hell, Bradbury didn't need to know either.

"I hate to say it, but sometimes..." he trailed off, trying not to say it, and say it at the same time. "Sometimes we have to be creative, to deal with our powers."

Creative. Terry wondered what kind of creativity could be bred from desperation. There was a point where he would've done just about anything to get the chaos of his mind to just shut up. He'd be so tired of hurting people. He still was. And sometimes he had difficulty imagining an eternity of living like that -- isolated, resentful, self-loathing.

If something as simple as a drug could fix that...

"Let me try it," he finally answered. It was an impulse, reckless in a way that he usually wasn't. But what did he really have to lose here anyway? "I'll pay you back, if you want."

Mitch almost choked on his own spit, the way his eyes widened, and the way that he almost stepped back, away from him. Oh, he knew the temptation, hell, he'd succumbed to it, obviously.

The issue was that Terry not only knew his secret -- one that too few had stumbled on, and fewer had smoked with him. Terry was going to need a sitter, if he was going to try this, and he figured leaving him to Bradbury would either result in disaster, or Terry would let something slip. "I--" he stopped, trying to logically figure out a way to justify telling him no.

"You're serious?" He finally asked.

He could tell that wasn't the response Mitch was expecting -- and probably not the one he wanted either. But it was out the open now, the words had been said, and Terry had a stubborn streak the mild wide. Say what you wanted about the kid, but a lack of willpower was not one of his vices. And it wasn't as if he had much to lose here.

"I don't really joke," he answered a bit flatly, keeping whatever discomfort he felt masked under a bit of a determined frown. "So?"

Worst case scenario, he figured, Mitch would say no.

Honestly, he should just say no. He really should. Not only was this gambling with his potential political career, but not only was he getting the illicit substance for himself, but for someone else as well.

On top of that, he was practically Bradbury's ward. There was a million reasons why he shouldn't. Really, all logic said it was a shit idea, and he should feel terrible for actually considering it. The problem with logic, of course, was the fact that it was thrown in the wind of Mitch's sympathy. Because he understood what it was like.

"Ah, not here," he said, shifting his gaze, looking around. "If you're going to try it --" this was such a shit idea. "Follow me," he said simply, nudging his head before he started walking.

Score.

Terry fell into step just behind Mitch, unsure whether or not he should feel nervous about this -- or guilty, at least, that he'd sort of twisted Mitch's arm, putting him in a hard place. It was probably inconvenient on any number of levels, but he couldn't push aside the idea of being able to self-medicate. He'd gone through worse than a little illegal activity to try and get some quiet in his head.

This definitely beat superhero boot camp. It couldn't even compare to that.

"Thanks," he finally said. He felt like some thanks probably wasn't out of place. Though the sarcastic remark he followed up with might have been. "I promise I won't blackmail you when you're the president or something."

It almost made him stop in his tracks, his shoulders tightening, before he tossed a look over his shoulder that was probably just a touch too wry.

"Shit, I don't think I can be president here, and thankfully, you're probably not going to go home with me someday, to see me become president -- eventually -- hopefully," his words were sarcastic, a wry twist of phrase, never giving much away. Not sharing how close he was, how goddamn close to that position he already was.

One step away. One skipped heartbeat -- if need be -- away from taking that position.

"But don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't, especially if Bradbury asks." Of all the people he couldn't have Bradbury know that he'd done this. Not the weed, he knew about the weed, but the...

Christ what a bad idea. "Just a little bit longer," he added, before turning down a path that was half-obscured by overgrown ferns.

Terry had never cared much about politics. His relationship with the government in their home universe had been a strained one-- him coping with what he had decided was a lesser evil. Their rules and regulations were a safer alternative to letting his powers run wild. But that didn't mean he ever really cared about the system. What he did care about though was Bradbury, and what Bradbury thought.

This wasn't something he was ever going to bring up with the man willingly.

"I'm not stupid," Terry responded pointedly. "I won't say anything."

He glanced around, trying to figure out where they were going exactly.

"Or do it anywhere you're going to get caught," he pointed out, as if that should be obvious. It wasn't that he didn't think Terry would really tell Bradbury -- or despite some hesitation, that Bradbury would really care -- his memory of the night of the apocalypse coming into sharp focus.

Mitchell hand't been able to listen to the machines die around him, and Bradbury had found out, then, that his boss did pull it in from time to time. It was easier than relying on his bodyguard, and a habit he needed to indulge in. Especially when the world had been falling down around them. Hell -- apparently Bradbury had thought so too.

"Anyway, here we are," he said, his voice low, before they were near a storage shack. It was locked, which Mitchell took care of with a soft "UNLOCK" and the place already reeked like weed, moreso than just the former Mayor could create.

"Service staff smokes here, but only at dusk. Otherwise, it's empty."

He'd monitored the park, looked for the right place, and watched, during different times to figure out when they were in here. When anyone came in here. He'd talked to the locks, to find out how many times and when they'd been opened.

Mitchell was careful, and meticulous, when it came to hiding his vice.

He still wasn't sure what he thought of the smell exactly -- it was somewhere between earthy and roadkill, either a whiff of mother nature's goodness or the backside of an aggravated skunk. Terry's eyebrows pinched slightly as they entered the shack. Well. The particular aroma was a small price to pay. And at least they had somewhere private to engage in their drug use. He'd put up with a lot worse to try and get his stupid powers shut down before.

"I can tell you've really thought this out," Terry remarked wryly in response. Despite his light mockery though, it was something he was appreciative of. He was pretty meticulous himself -- he had to be, to keep on top of his own demonic urges -- and he wasn't was reckless as one might have expected a nineteen-year-old immortal to be.

He exhaled, sitting down on the ground with his back against the wall of the shack before glancing up at Mitch expectantly.

"So?"

"So give me a goddamn moment," he said simply, turning to whisper at the door, the last brush of power, the last familiar surge of green that escaped his lips, synesthesia -- invoking that color as surely as his voice hurt human ears. Something not audible, but it didn't need to really change, for the change in tones to come across. "DON'T UNLOCK."

With it done, he turned again, rooting in his pocket for that plastic baggie, pulling it free, and presenting the real star of the show. He was practically the supplier at this point, his fingers pulling out one, before he neatly folded them back in, the lighter coming next -- a zippo, and the audible clink of the cap spoke of how it was well-worn, and used.

He held it up, to hand to Terry, before he held out the lighter too.

"Just, ah, light the end of it, and...smoke. You've smoked before, right?"

Now seemed like a bad time to admit that no, he wasn't exactly experienced with smoking of any kind -- as in, he never had. Ever. Maybe if he'd ever been cool enough to have that type of friend in high school, or if he'd spent less time on a tightly controlled military base being turned into a teenage weapon --

Well. That was a lot of if's. But how hard could it be anyway? He'd be disemboweled before. This couldn't be any worse than that.

So, Terry reached for the blunt and the lighter, clicking it twice, then three times in his inexperience before getting a flame to hold. A thin wisp of smoke curled towards the ceiling of the shack. He hesitated, eying the joint a second before finally pressing it between his lips and inhaling.

Immediately, he coughed, making a face.

Mitchell watched him for a long moment, not just the hesitation, but the way he worked the lighter, the way his hands moved, everything spoke of his inexperience. Everything said that Terry wasn't going to do this right at first, and when he coughed, well, Mitchell had honestly been expecting that anyway.

When he coughed, Mitchell reached out, a silent request for the items back, before he pulled them, to try and give Terry a little bit of silent guidance.

His hands were more steady, practiced. One flip of the lighter and the flame held true, the zippo meaning he didn't have to do more than strike the flint before the flame was there, and he took a sharp inhale, a long one that lit the end, and drug from it for a long moment, before he pulled it away, and held it.

He handed it back to Terry, with a quirk of his lips, a tip of his head, and he started to let it go.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He was tired of being poor and he wasn't into selling door to door

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject