maskormenacelogs | ( open ) all for freedom and for pleasure

Entry tags:

( open ) all for freedom and for pleasure

WHO: Rosita & open!
WHERE: various
WHEN: throughout August
WHAT: Rosita is stuck doing promotions for her impending dating show. Help her.
WARNINGS: default Walking Dead warning for potential mention of death, murder, cannibalism, the undead. I'll update as necessary. Feel free to pm me or hit this post if there are any topics you'd like me to avoid completely or if you'd prefer to opt out of cr with Rosita :]b
NOTE: prose or brackets are totally fine, go with what works for you.

( just name a time & location, honestly. )

Rosita doesn't look delighted, but then she rarely looks delighted. Right now she's looking extra devoid of delight, mouth in a tight line and gaze blank and she hands out posters. There may, or may not, be cameras trailing her. (The cameras are always there, in truth, it's just a matter of how close they are, or whether the guy rolling needed to run off for coffee or cigarettes.) She's stuck in something that feels like an exaggeration of the clothes she was wearing when she first met Tara and Glenn; shorts, a button down knotted at her abdomen, combat boots and her cap. It's just so clean and crisp, cut to be fashionable and attractive rather than just being whatever she'd found on the road.

It's weird and contrived and she doesn't like it. However, the fact is that stupid as it may be, being the presenter for some brand spanking new reality television show pays well, and the family has to be put before just about anything else. Daryl said they needed to raise funds, and so she's gone from trying to find a way out of the contract keeping her in this job to embracing it, jumping through all their stupid hoops, and bearing it.

That she kind of wants to punch the smarmy jerk calling himself her manager in the throat from time to time is another matter. Apparently her unimpressed attitude is a playful new thing they want to work into marketing, and she's not sure if that's a relief or even more annoying.

Feel free to find her—

a. handing out posters.
Who said romance was dead? is plastered across the glossy paper in bright red, and she barely holds it out far enough to reach whoever she's meant to be throwing it at. "Here."
Enjoy. Be grateful.

b. A PHOTO OP, complete with actors in zombie get up.
CONGRATS the camera crew have hauled or harassed poor souls in, and may already be reaching for them with fake blood.
Rosita observes with a quiet sigh as they dab at her with fake soot and dirt. "My condolences."

c. question time.
"Hi," she says, and there's a dry note of this is so stupid woven into her the flatness of her tone. "Do you have time to answer some questions?"

Please. For the love of God. Just answer the questions so this can be over.

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"--Thanks."

She's been doing this all day and so probably it just. Happens. Sylar, in range, dressed in rolled-sleeves and conservative black, and thick-framed reading glasses that he goes ahead and adjusts to view the tagline on the poster that was thrust his way. In his other hand is a frozen yogurt.

It's pink. He's not sharing.

He squints at her through sunlit-glared glasses, raising an eyebrow. In his usual kind of flat, off-key wryness, he observes; "You're dressed like a cartoon. Did you know that?"

The zombie actors were really lucky the security detail was on their game when Daryl walked past the part of the street they'd set up the photoshoot on. Really damn lucky. Because his knife had been out and ready to go when the first of the extra actors turned around and lifted their arms towards him with a fake moan from beyond the cordon. Security had been swift to shout him down that it was all fake and safe and just make-up and get in his way.

The scene caused more than a few of the imPort-interested-fans-who'll-do-whatever lined up for the photo op to raise their cameras and start recording. And then quite a few more to start shouting 'Daryl I love you!' and 'Can I have a picture with you?!' and 'Daryl! Look this way!' when they recognized him.

Daryl shook the last of the security bozos off his arm and stepped back from it all to take a look at what was actually going on, disgust written all over his face, and finally, finally spotted Rosita in the middle of the mess. He'd long since given up on there being a God, but Dear Lord in Heaven that was one of the most horrifying sights he'd ever seen. When she'd told him about the job, he'd thought something along the lines of that Survivor show his daddy liked to make fun of back before. But this?

"What the fuck?" he asked in a slow, low tone, just staring at Rosita where she stood, looking very done with everything while more fake blood and dirt was applied to make her look worn down but still tastefully pretty.

Edited 2016-08-16 13:49 (UTC)

It's a pleasant enough day. Hot, certainly, but not so humid as to make the air oppressive and uncomfortable to breathe. It's the sort of weather that practically demands he take Pup and go spend a few hours outside. They're walking down the street, the large mabari keeping pace at his side—getting a collar and leash hasn't crossed his mind—when Cullen hears the woman's voice. At first he's certain she isn't speaking to him, but when he turns his head in her direction, she's clearly looking at him.

Eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise, Cullen stops, the dog halting without a word from him and sitting at his side. "Ah yes, of course."

He offers her a polite smile, mildly confused but willing to converse. He's dressed casually, khaki trousers and a light blue t-shirt. The attire of this world is unfamiliar to him, but he tried to blend in.

"What would you like to know?" He hopes she isn't looking for directions, because he has no idea where anything is.

As Claire looks at the other woman's clothes, or lack thereof, she comes up with a few questions of her own. Namely what happened to the rest of your clothes?. But she knows that fashion (if that's what this is called) is different here, even from the 40s to now, and she's beginning to feel slightly out of place every time she walks down the street.

She gamely clears her throat, though, trying to keep the shocked expression at midriff just out there off of her face.

"...All right, I suppose. What are they?"

Oh, good. It's her super good best friend, Gabriel.

That's not quite as scathing as it could be, so far as internal observations go; she thinks he's pretty decent. Quick thinker, good to have on side in a fight. These are all positive qualities, even to one so critical and careful as Rosita. It's such that the comment, which might have won an eyeroll and silence for most others (even with the wryness) just gets her to shake her head.

"A cartoon with a job to do." She can't exactly deny the cartoon comment when it's true. "That doesn't look like actual food," Rosita adds, with an upward nod towards that pink mass.

It's the yells of Daryl that make her realise that this is about to really, really suck.
She understands, and there's equal parts apology and irritation wound into her as she shuts her eyes and sighs. Warning the others away from her job would be easier if this wasn't an ongoing kind of thing. Rosita takes a couple steps towards him, and impressively her make up entourage just kind of move with her.

Instead of offering anything more articulate, she starts with: "Yeah." As if, somehow, that could summarise that his reaction and hers were not so very different. She hadn't gone in to stab anyone, but she also had to endure being told about this and the marketing and everything else and just having to sit there and not strangle everyone in the room.

Rather than say any of that, she shrugs. "Told you it was screwed up."

That sure is a dog. Rosita looks at it for a moment, that familiar twisting feeling in her gut. Last time she encountered dogs they'd been feral, wild things. They'd had to survive as surely as the group had. The focus on the dog lasts only a moment, before she draws her gaze back towards the stranger. There's cameras somewhere and she is already horribly aware how over enthusiastic the producers seem to get about everything.

"What's your opinion on true love?"

The question comes with all the quiet dryness and suffering of someone who thinks it is a stupid question, and who has had to endure some agonising hitting on as a result, and who is following a stupid script for the money. In short: uuugghhh.

Her first thought is that maybe this lady is trapped doing some promotion of her own, dressed like that. Maybe some kind of period drama? Maybe a historical dating show, God, who knows. Rosita didn't watch much of those before the world ended, had been more interested in the present than dragging over the bones of things long dead. (Maybe there was some kind of irony in that given the state of things back home, who knows.) The point is that she glances towards the cameraman, questioning, before shrugging and just going with it. Whatever, maybe there's some horrifying crossover on the horizon that she's not heard about yet.

She sighs heavily. "What's your opinion on true love?" One day, one day hopefully soon, they will change the damn opening script to this thing.

"I do, yes," Malms says with a nod. He's run across enough pollsters and the like to suspect the general direction this is going, but this woman looks like she could stand to catch a break. "You're affiliated with this entourage, I take it?"

"Get the hell away from her, she's fine," Daryl grumbled rudely as the make-up people continued to fuss over her looks. Going so far as to step forward and waving his hand in their direction like it was the only warning they were gonna get before he started swinging. The crew nearest him backed away from Rosita and looked to security, who were once again closing in on Daryl. They got an angry snarl and snare to go with the very threatening, "And you stay the hell off me."

One of them looked towards Rosita and lifted their hand, expecting her to be upset by this display and wanting protection like most of their talent would, "Don't worry ma'am, we'll handle this."

Pup meets that look with a doggy smile, mouth open and tongue lolling to the side. One ear flops over as the other rises to attention. His tail wags slowly against the ground, the sound of it a light thwap against the pavement.

Cullen doesn't pay him any attention. It's the woman before him that gets the totality of his focus. It's the courteous thing to do, first of all, and the dryness of her voice is one he recognizes. It speaks of long-suffering aggravation and he's rather intimately familiar with that sort of thing. He cannot resist giving her a sympathetic smile.

"I suppose it's nice. The bards and the authors of the world certainly harp on it enough." His shoulders roll in a careless shrug. "I've no firsthand experience with it, however, so perhaps my opinion hardly matters."

She's trying not to laugh. She's REALLY trying. But this is so cheesy and ridiculous, it's kind of amazing?

And that's coming from someone who literally works with cheese.

"Hey. Back off." Sharp, as she steps forward to put herself between Daryl and the impending security. Her hands rest on her hips and she looks up at them, defiant. "Touch him and I'm out of here. We clear?"

They cast a look to each other, to Rosita and to Daryl. "Are we clear?" she repeats, and even though it's just a little thing she can feel herself sinking into old habits. Defending Daryl came first. The rest of these people? They weren't family. They were useful, sure, but they could go screw themselves and their stupid show if they even tried to push him around.

Rosita is standing there with a poster, and she rolls it up so she can more effectively shove it Ruby, smile nowhere in sight - mostly. Et tu, Lucas?

She shakes her head, and cross her arms around the rest of her pile of posters. "You're an ass."

"Thanks," she replies, the word exhaled more than spoken. There is the faintest flicker at her brow, just because... this is not the standard person she is speaking with, but whatever. She's had a long day in a stretch of long days. She can handle this.

And she's even getting close to the point of being over the terrible first question. "What's your opinion on true love?"

And this is where, if Rosita wasn't so Rosita, she'd likely have crumbled into the script potentially forcing her to spring into a run of questions about oh, so no special someone in your life? That is what they've tried to prompt her to do via earpiece in the past, and she's learned the only way to get them to shut up is to try and think of something more interesting that can pass for something script suitable.

She's rather spare them both the pain, especially when the poor guy was sympathetic. Bards made him sound a little more ye olde than she was expecting, sure. It's a little more interesting, too. Ask him if he wants experience with it! a voice prompts her in her earpiece, and she ignores it. It's a different brand of stupid, but it's still stupid.

"It definitely matters." Not least of all because he seems sane. Always a good first impression. "Do you have any..." Oh, God. "Favourite stories?"

Claire's wary of the camera but looks at the young woman. Somehow, for some reason, that wasn't the question she expected.

"Are you putting me on?"

It's the first thing she can think to say because of her own life, but she shakes her head in apology, realizing that can't be the case. This woman knows nothing about her, and without realizing she's doing it, her hands try to cover the dual wedding rings she's wearing.

"I don't know if I believe there's such a thing as finding the right love the first time. Or ever."

If she'd never traveled to 1743, she never would have met Jamie at all, and she'd never have been the wiser.

"Yes, ma'am," the lead security agent said to her with a nod and took a step back, hands up before moving off to make sure no one was jumping the line - which had started to grow now that people were shouting for Daryl. They'd be disappointed to find out later (after waiting so long in line) that it was not, in fact, for a photo op with Dixon like they thought it was because of all that shouting.

Daryl continued to glare at the security guys until every last one had backed up some. There was nervous fidgeting from the make-up crew and the zombie extras seemed to have decided they should stay closer to the background and props while they went about moaning like they were paid to.

When he was satisfied the two would be left alone, he stepped in close to her so he couldn't be overheard when he gave her a concerned look and muttered, "You ain't gotta do this shit. Tell 'em to fuck off and walk."

Edited 2016-08-17 16:58 (UTC)

The laughter comes spilling out as she takes the poster.

"I'm sorry," she says after a moment. "I just-- I knew what to expect, but I also didn't?"

When she'd first posed the question, visions of Orlais and the Winter Palace had rushed through his mind: nosy, grating people asking invasive personal questions for no reason other than to satisfy boredom and laugh at his expense. But it doesn't seem as if anything like that is happening here. It makes him relax a little and the stiff awkwardness that always clings to him during social moments like this fades away.

"Of true love?" Cullen laughs. It's quiet, more of a chuckle than anything else, but it's genuine and it reaches his eyes as he shakes his head. "I'm afraid that's more my sister's purview than mine. Much as I enjoy reading and listening to bard's tales, I've not had the time to indulge of late."

Here, however, might be a different story. "There is a terribly written piece of rubbish that's quite popular in my world. It seems everyone loves it." From the pained tone of his voice, Cullen thinks they're all idiots. "Do you enjoy such tales?"

"It's boysenberry."

This is delivered with an affable version of so fuck you in its tone. He folds the flyer over absently, before attacking frozen dairy product with a plastic spoon that looks just this side of too flimsy and small for his hands. "So you got saddled with being a-- I don't know what they call them in a way that's not insulting. Promotional model? And no one's dead as a result?"

"Are you sure there's any boysenberries in there?"

There probably are, but it's fun to be kind of an ass, sometimes. She needs banter to help counter her inherent prickliness, it tends to make things go better for everyone. The prickles might still appear to be there, of course, but they become more decorative than practical.

But, a sigh, and she looks away for a moment, not out of shame or embarrassment so much as because looking into the middle distance is cool, or something. "I'm going to be hosting a dating show with a theme of surviving walkers."

"You know how much they're gonna be paying me when this show starts? If it gets popular?" It shouldn't sound as sharp as it does, and she stops herself, makes a very slight face at her own town, shaking her head a little. "Enough to help out getting our place, making sure everyone's safe. That," she continues, looking at Daryl intently, holding eyecontact if he'll let her to try and make sure he sees how serious she is, "is worth putting up with all this bullshit."

She shakes her head, shifting her weight onto her back foot. "Back home we're prepared to do whatever it takes. I'm not going to do anything different." A shrug, and she shakes her head. "I don't have the training to be an actual nurse. And I sure as hell wouldn't get paid this well being one, either."

"I think they're really great fuel for fires," she replies, and there's a smile and a quiet sort of defiance at no one in particular that slips into her inflection. She's not one for quick or easy smiles, but there's the suggestion of one that tugs at the corner of her mouth for a moment. "Maybe that's the real constant between all our worlds. Romantic bullshit."

Rosita isn't necessarily a romantic. She adores Abraham, even though he's not here, and even though that's starting to feel— out of place, somehow. When she thinks of love, at least, she thinks of Abraham, even if it's not romantic. It's hard to buy a girl flowers and chocolates when the world is ended; they don't need romance when they save each other's lives and would do anything for each other. Romance? She wonders if maybe it's overrated.

"If I'm going to read something, I'd rather it didn't make me want to roll my eyes out of my head."

The look Rosita gives her current interviewee? It carries an air of I wish I were, a mix of sympathy and quiet exasperation at everyone in all the worlds ever.

Still, the response makes her a little curious. It's galling, considering the camera and all, but she's getting a little better at ignoring the bullshit. Her brow quirks just slightly, trying to figure if she's missed something.

"Any reason you think true love has to be the first love?"

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( open ) all for freedom and for pleasure

a. posters, pls. somewhere in nonah.

b for 'because let's make this awkward'; De Chima; for timeline concerns, say the 21st?

c. heropa

c, Maurita Falls!

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sounds good :]b

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C!

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Dealer's choice

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how dare you

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<3<3<3

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apologies for my slow, work has been a bit hideous ;;;;