maskormenacelogs | I paced around for hours on empty, I jumped at the slightest of sounds

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I paced around for hours on empty, I jumped at the slightest of sounds

WHO: REGGIE MANTLE and YOU.
WHERE: Around! Mostly Heropa & Maurtia Falls, but anywhere's fine.
WHEN: Throughout May.
WHAT: Reggie's secrets and internal crises have brought him to the precipice; will he continue down his self-destructive path, heedless of consequences, or will he finally start making real strides in his (thus far short-lived) efforts at being a better person? Will he even still be here next month?
WARNINGS: References to canon-typical death/violence/suicide ideation/zombies, possible mentions of underage drug use, drinking, self-harm, and/or sexual implications. Will ETA as necessary.

NOTE FOR CURRENT CR: In June Reggie will be canon-swapped with his counterpart from the TV show Riverdale, meaning this is the last month to play things out with this version of Reggie. If there's anything you'd like to work out in specific regarding CR closure and/or prepping for the transition, feel free to PM me or talk to me on plurk!

H E R O P A ✘ dead boy walking

(

cw: suicidal ideation

)

Uncanny to think Reggie's been here for years now... sometimes it's easier to accept, to just take the basic information and apply it to his reality -- yes, it's been years since I've been home, even my short-lived visit home was about a year ago by now -- whereas other times it seems too absurd to believe. How can Reggie be two years older than his classmates? How can it be he's alive here in some alternate universe when all of his friends are dead or may be dying back home at the hands of a relentless, vengeful zombie horde?

It doesn't make sense. He was the one who started it all, the one approached with a task in order to set things right again; if it could be fixed, it had to be him to do it. At least, that was the truth as far as Reggie knew it, both then and now.

He tries not to think about it, but also can't help it. Not always. The longer he stays the more intrusive the guilt and the memories become, to the point where if Reggie's able to sleep at all, he wakes up to the image of Sabrina... or Jughead, or Moose, or Midge, or Kevin, or even Archie reaching through the fabric of reality to put a hand on his shoulder. Sometimes his throat. He fears people can sense or even see what he's done written on his skin somehow, reflected in his eyes. Though alive, he feels more and more like a walking corpse himself every day that passes.

So, most nights lately in lieu of sleeping, Reggie's taken to going out and wandering... just walking (or sometimes even running), dark circles around his eyes and in yesterday's clothes, in any direction until he finds something to occupy his time and mind. Sometimes he just walks along roads in a semi-daze, occasionally forcing what few drivers are out in the middle of the night/early morning to swerve to avoid hitting him whenever he wanders off the shoulder, but even more often he ends up at the beach, staring dully at the dark water as if tempted by it. It's no more quiet out here than in his room at home, in his head -- not really -- but somehow being outside still seems to help more than the alternative.

If something happened to him out here, then at least people would know about it.

M A U R T I A ∎ F A L L S ✘ quote from man stabbed--

(

cw: stabbing

)

As awful a person Reggie often finds himself thinking he might be -- knowing that maybe he must be -- one thought he can't seem to shake entirely is if it has to be that way. Sure, he's been bad before, he's always been bad, but awful? Terrible? Irredeemable, even? Are those already concrete, immovable facts about him, set in stone no matter what he does, or are these still things he can change about himself?

And does he want to, is probably the better question-- but when it doesn't seem so pointless, an impossibly unattainable endeavor, Reggie thinks he does. He can live with being bad, but being a bad person is a different thing entirely. Kevin had seemed to think maybe there was still hope for Reggie, but after so long without seeing him -- or any friendly face that truly knew him -- the doubts once again slowly crept back out to devour Reggie alive.

It occurs to him sometimes, for example, how in retrospect he isn't quite sure Sabrina ever promised things would be fixed if he did what she wanted. You need to go back to your friends, you need to beg their forgiveness... and then you need to kill their hope... you need to kill Betty Cooper, Reggie, and then Midge will be yours forever. Not that he can always trust his memory, but this-- whenever he recalls it, the memory returns fully formed and intact like a movie clip. With so much time and space between him and that moment now, he's no longer sure it's what he wants. Is it noble? Is it evil? Does he want Midge at the expense of another life (and does he know she'd really want him back?)... and is he even capable of killing someone? He has the switchblade Sasha got for him on his last birthday practically burning a hole in his pocket, but it's never been used, not even in self-defense-- Reggie himself doesn't know if that's any testament toward goodness in him or just more proof that he's a coward.

It is, however, how he winds up getting stabbed. Not seriously, but-- Reggie discovers that no, he's not so sure he does have it in him to kill someone, when after accidentally-on-purpose provoking a fight with a couple of drunk locals outside a nightclub he remembers he has the knife and pulls it, in an attempt to intimidate them. Instead, it gets grabbed from him and he gets slashed across the cheek and in the shoulder before the drunks run off, leaving him there to shout and bleed.

Son of a--

face!

✘ W I L D C A R D ✘

Choose your own adventure! Feel free to tag in with your own starter if nothing above quite suits your needs, or PM/plurk me to work out a custom starter!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ The fact that seeking out Kavinsky to fool around with has become something of a routine for Reggie is a fact he'd probably find both comforting and unsettling, were he to ever think about it at length. Since it's Reggie, though, he of course does his best not to think about it much at all; self-analysis is too dangerous a game for him, it leads toward too many disappointing or outright disturbing possibilities, but that's another nice thing about spending time with Kavinsky. More often than not, it's extremely easy to just slip into a mindless state of bliss, relying on instinct and reactionary impulse alone.

And since Sasha disappeared, somehow it's the course of action that just makes the most sense to him in response-- he needs more of this, something fun and simple and a little bit disgusting. He tries not to worry too much about what Kavinsky, in turn, thinks of him; a hard habit for Reggie, who usually cares far too much what people think of him, to break... but in this case he senses no good will come of being too eager to please.

Whatever works. ]

Hey, I forget...

[ Reggie lets his head rest idly against Kavinsky's shoulder as his buzz wavers slightly, though doesn't yet fade. He has a 3/4s empty bottle of vodka sitting in his lap, but since his arms feel too heavy to pour another shot, he just lets himself talk for the moment. ]

How long have you been here for, anyway?

Hnh? [kavinsky's either half-asleep or distracted. the latter, little doubt. under the best of circumstances, he's coked up too high for any real approximation of somnolence to take place unless they're doing a lot more than vodka. his voice is soft from something else entirely, then, unfocused. he has half an eye on his phone, and half a hand on reggie's groin.] What. You mean in this fucking... universe, or whatever?

[he has no nerd cred. none. the most he knows is 'multiverse' to broadly encapsulate the clusterfuck going on with too many earths sharing too little space, fuck knows what's going on with the prevalence of aliens. sometimes he thinks he's going to wake up in a fantasy world with elves bitching about his posture, condemned to a life of veganism. sometimes he thinks, maybe then at least, he'd be able to get away with killing himself. hahahahaha.

he flops his phone aside and glances at reggie proper.] Like a year. Year and two, three months. Some shit like that. You? [he cocks his head, his eyes drifting lazily across reggie's face. his pupils are big as moons.]

Yeah.

[ A simple answer for such a complicated question, but Reggie is no nerd either. It took him almost a year of him being here to even begin to start considering it "real," and he still only does by a technicality-- when he finally went back home then came back, that put things in slight perspective. But only slight.

He's not smart enough to understand this kind of thing any more deeply than the bare minimum required to accept it in the first place; a zombie apocalypse seems more real than this... is more real, because here nothing really matters to Reggie.

Well, almost nothing.

Reggie meets Kavisky's eyes just for a moment, then he shifts his gaze away, his hand moving to lazily slide over Kavinsky's thigh. ]

Two years or something. I dunno-- some people keep like, calendars and crap. Mark freakin' anniversaries. I never got that... it's not like it's real time passing, right? But people always act like this is real life. I mean, that seems crazy, right?

[ The time does pass, but... well, Reggie's not in any state to tell how much sense he's making right now. If ever. ]

[there's a grunt from the dream thief, who is always super extremely articulate, but least so in the lag time in between intervals of cocaine. how long has it been since he did a line? a few hours. he's crashing, but the craving's suffocated by alcohol and the warmth from reggie's body, his lithe shoulder and slim hip stacked up against his side. the familiar shape of his dick under kavinsky's hand. maybe they'll fuck. maybe they'll sleep. maybe they'll sleep then they'll fuck.

kavinsky hasn't slept in three days.] What. [he moves his hand off the other boy's groin in order to take the vodka bottle, but instead of drinking from it, he pushes the glass butt into the boy's thighs instead. not hard enough to hurt, rubbing the vessel on reggie through the fabric of his pants lackadaisically, just because he can. and maybe also because he wants to see if the other boy will snatch it away. push him. or if he'll let it happen. all possibilities are entertaining.] You think this place is the exact same as tripping balls?

Having a nightmare?

[he cracks a yawn and slides down on the bed a little, looks up at reggie. eyelids hooded. a smirk loitering around the corners of his big-lipped mouth.]

[ Articulateness can be a bit of a turn-off for Reggie, anyway-- at least if it's not being employed in a way directly helpful to him, which is rarely the case.

Usually it just makes him feel dumb. Which he is, but he hates knowing other people might be thinking it too, but in a place like this where everyone wants to prove how smart and clever and tough they are, it gets harder and harder to ever avoid.

It unclear when Reggie bites the corner of his lower lip if he's doing so in thought or because of what Kavinsky's doing to him with the vodka bottle, at least until Reggie's eyes drop downward. Then he shifts his gaze aside to Kavinsky, shaking his head lazily. ]

No-- it'd have to be worse than real life to be a nightmare. It's more like... I dunno.

[ He blinks tiredly, leaning a bit closer and tilting his head up. ]

Like, just nothing. It doesn't matter what we do or what we've done. You know? We're just stuck in intermission until we get to go home for Act II.

[ But it's different when you're here as long as he's been without going back and forth much, if at all, and not having anyone from home who knows him -- and what he's done -- join him here. A specific, isolated experience. ]

[it's always nice to have a little bit of payoff when you're going through all the effort of rubbing a boy's penis. kavinsky's eyes crinkle slightly, his pupils blowing up even bigger than their usual satellite high bloat, under his characteristically heavy eyelids. by now, reggie can tell when he's interested even under the veneer of teenaged too cool to care. of course, it doesn't hurt that kavinsky is always interested. 9 out of 10 times. it'll take more than sylar sawing his 💀 in half once to change that about him.]

Do you wanna fuck or do you actually want to talk about this thing? Option C-- [kavinsky tosses the bottle underhand, across the bed. it bounces heavily on the mattress, rolls a few inches but stops before falling off the edge and smash on the floor. kavinsky then proceeds to slide down on the bed, ass across blankets. roll over sideways, onto his stomach. this puts his head at about dick-sucking altitude as measured by reggie's body.] I can also suck while you talk. Whatever you want, princess. [if you happened to want empathetic boyfriends, you would probably apply elsewhere. kavinsky isn't even particularly capable of being baseline honest in a serious conversation--]

Pretty sure my life blows harder in this world.

[—most of the time.] Last one was already a fucking nightmare. [reggie's special, maybe. but here we are, kavinsky yawning indolently on the bed.]

I-- um. [ The question, asked point-blank directly that way, makes Reggie freeze up. ] ... I don't really need to talk.

[ He does, of course, and perhaps Kavinsky does too about something, but "need" is different than "want" or "willing to." For instance, right now the two of them don't need to do this, but Reggie knows he both wants to and is willing to. If there's anything to be said for his time in this place, it's that it's allowed him to finally be more ready to accept this fact about himself.

It's harder to say how well he'd take to empathy at this point anyway, so maybe it's all for the best.

Reflexively Reggie grabs and moves the bottle to lay on a pillow where it'll be less at risk for falling, then strokes his hand down the side of Kavinsky's face. Reggie's expression is strangely blank; he isn't sure how he feels right now, or how he even should feel.

Morbidly curious, maybe. To Reggie, this world is a reprieve from the horrors of home, and he knows how for many people it's the opposite. But reprieve or not, Reggie also hasn't been happy here, and it's rare that he hears someone else feels that same sort of parallel discontent. ]

What's wrong with it? [ He can't help asking, even as he moves to undo his belt. ] Or-- was.

[i can't die, kavinsky thinks, but doesn't say. i can't stay dead anymore. but suicide isn't something that men talk about, not the crushing despair that leads one to it, not the fear or the allure. if you mean it, you just do it, and everyone might call you a coward later, but you won't be around to hear. that's what kavinsky knows.]

Dad tried to kill me back home, [is his favorite lie.] Bitches kept being all up in my shit, [is a close second. like it's ronan's fault; as if it had been ronan, who'd chased him, who wouldn't leave him alone, stalked and harrassed. the reality was the exact opposite, but who does reggie have to ask?

not even kavinsky himself, who leans in nearer now, tucking a kiss on reggie's jawbone, then one on his neck, a bite on his collarbone, mouthing his way down, down the other boy's body, until kavinsky's turning on his elbows. rolling onto his stomach. nuzzling the widening gap in reggie's pants, his breath filtering down into dark curls and close fabric. very soon his mouth will be occupied. :) :)]

[ The luxury of lack of real death in this place is hardly something lost on Reggie, either -- although he does consider it a luxury, when he thinks of it at all -- but what he always felt most comforted by about this world was simply the fact that it was almost normal. Weird, but normal. Society hasn't crumbled, he can live in a house again, meet people, sleep (or try to sleep) in a real bed without worrying that death is just around the corner. Life isn't an apocalyptic landscape anymore, one that was his fault.

It's hard to even think about home. The friends he's left behind, the ones he's known since he was a child, the ones who are still alive and the ones who are dead now, or even his parents, who are probably both dead.

He leans back, offering in almost a wistful tone: ]

I think my friends would've killed me if they got the chance. They think they're such good people, but... [ He shakes his head, brushing his fingers across Kavinsky's hair. ] No one's that good.

[ He thinks about Kevin, who had tried to stop Reggie from leaving the group. That's suicide, Reggie, he'd said, but in the end Kevin didn't follow him and in the end, Reggie had still survived. Maybe that meant something, but Reggie's not smart enough to figure it out.

He can only guess, or try not to think about it. ]

Good riddance to all of them. [ Reggie doesn't know how much he means that, but it feels good to say. Feels right to say. ] I'm glad you're alive, anyway.

[those last five words make kavinsky laugh for some stupid awful reason. part of him doesn't believe the other boy— glad you're alive. well, kavinsky's sure that between the sex and endless supply of nefarious treats and goodies, he's worth having around, but all the love and fraternity that that line normally entails, he doubts there's any of that between them.

not that he cares.

he picks himself up, swivels himself over reggie so that he's kneeling in between the other boy's legs. he backs up a few inches, then hooks the waist of the other boy's pants with his fingers. yanks. hard enough to scoot reggie's newly-unzipped pants down his ass and groin, and also to pull the boy down the bed. kavinsky's head is down the next instant, taking reggie's cock in his mouth with the coarse expedience that comes with familiarity and entitlement. certainly!! how you'd like to be handled by your lover. (or not.)

but his mouth is warm and wet and willing, familiar. the flat of his tongue sleeking down the bottom of the shaft, the back of his throat crammed up against the head of reggie's sex without bothering with flirtation or crescendo.]

[ This is, perhaps surprisingly, a first for Reggie-- buying cigarettes, and not even for himself. Smoking just never really was his thing, he thought it smelled awful and gave people bad breath on top of everything, so only now as he stands in the convenience store squinting over the counter, he realizes just how many different kinds of cigarettes exist, different brands and varieties that he couldn't begin to understand the distinctions between.

Not that it really matters, of course. He's not getting them for himself, nor anyone who's even in a position to be picky about what he ends up choosing anyway; Reggie decides one of the more standard, common brands and types ("something smooth" is his only stipulation) before heading out into the parking lot where he's already texted Tara to meet him. Then, assuming she'll catch it, he tosses the pack at her head. ]

Whoops!

[ Or: think fast. ]

[ she's waiting, and watching in the opposite direction when reggie tosses the pack at her head. she's quick enough to realize that he's behind her, but not quick enough to catch it, and the packet clatters to the floor. she scowls, and bends down to pick it up.]

...Thanks, I guess? How much do I owe you?

[ Thankfully it's just a pack of cigarettes, and Reggie isn't exactly equipped to throw them hard enough to hurt-- but it is an accurate enough throw, given how he did used to play baseball.

Used to. Not since he's been here, of course, that would be too normal.

Reggie smirks mildly, then slowly shrugs his shoulders. ]

I dunno-- we can say ten bucks next time. [ If there is one. ] But this one's on me, I guess. It's not exactly something that broke the bank.

Gee, thanks for the charity, dude.

[she opens the pack with way too much practice for a fourteen year old girl. but hey, she's the one who asked for them in the first place.]

Do you want a smoke?

Uh...

[ Reggie shrugs, then squints, about to say no but then giving the offer another few moments of consideration. Sure, it's nasty, but just once probably can't hurt, right? At least it looks cool. ]

Sure, I guess. Why not, right...? [ He holds out a hand. ] How do they taste?

[ He always pictured something like burning leaves. ]

I dunno. Like bad decisions.

[ she shrugs back, cigarette dangling from her mouth, and tosses reggie one. after some rummaging around in her pocket, she pulls out a lighter and leans towards the flame. once the cigarette is lit, she inhales. ]

I don't smoke for the taste. I'm sure you figured that one out.

What are you, an idiot?

[ Probably... but not like he isn't one either; at least she has the excuse of also being young. Reggie holds his cigarette to the flame of her lighter and then carefully raises it to his own lips, emulating the way he knows it's meant to be smoked-- he coughs a little, but not so aggressively as a complete amateur might. He's been around and seen enough smokers, so the technique is at least something he's familiar with.

He takes another drag on it, slower and more successfully this time. ]

Why do something just because it's a bad decision? That's a good way to get your ass kicked, you know.

[ He would know, because literally all he ever does is make bad decisions accidentally-on-purpose and then get his ass kicked. Or... well, something to that effect.]

Yup!

[ she doesn't even seem to resent the notion. tara knows she's pretty dumb; she's only smart in a survival situation, and even then, her decision making has never been quality. she takes another drag on the cigarette, imagining the poison filling her lungs. there's something morbidly comforting about it. she wonders if everyone basks in their own self-destruction. it's probably just a teenager thing. ]

Maybe I want to get my ass kicked. Mostly, I'm just tired.

[ her tone is light and conversational. it's true; she's exhausted. maybe someone will come kick her ass soon. ]

[ Reggie has nothing to say about most of that.

He could, of course, but it all hits a little too close to home, and as always anything that Reggie relates to in a bad way he prefers to just ignore or avoid at all costs. It's one way to cope, anyway.

And another is this: smoking. Reggie coughs again, but it's starting to feel a bit more smooth the longer he does it for. ]

Getting your ass kicked won't help with that, you know.

Probably not. I'll try anything.

[ she grins as she inhales on her own. ]

Not a smoker, huh?

[ Reggie spends a lot more time in Maurtia Falls these days, both because now he works there and because Sasha's gone and he has fewer people to hang out with. Not one to seem needy or desperate for company -- hell no -- that means sometimes after work, Reggie makes good use of his fake ID in one (or more) of Maurtia Falls's many bars and nightclubs.

It passes the time, and as always, if he's drinking then he can't focus too hard on feeling bad or lonely...
except tonight, once he recognizes one of the other patrons in the bar as Will Graham, Sasha's... well, whatever the hell he'd been, her "guardian."

Reggie ducks his head down, trying to seem as unnoticeable as possible, but as Will's currently standing between Reggie and the door, he can't even just get up and leave. ]

[Keeping his head down isn't going to do the trick. In an environment that's mostly a mix of a few ingredients (booze, colognes and perfumes, make up, hair product, bleach, bodily fluids, future hangovers) anything familiar, however faint, sticks out like a sore thumb. Will doesn't let on, only does a double sniff quietly to himself to be certain, and then any time he looks up, he makes sure it's at a different area than before.

That he meanders to the door is simply a natural product of the subtle hunt. There he is. Will has spoken to all of one person about Sasha's disappearance, and otherwise kept it to himself. Has Reggie done even that? Maybe spoken to Chilton? Who knows.

He ducks out of sight. Momentarily, anyway, long enough Reggie might think he's off the hook.

...until the bearded disaster slides in next to him, having made a circle like a particularly scraggly lion, and announces his presence the same time he's bodily there with a quiet:]

Next round's on me.

[Nobody here risks their job that way, everyone wins.]

[ The answer to that would be no-- no, Reggie hasn't spoken to anyone about Sasha, and frankly, the thought of doing so has barely crossed his mind. Similar to how he just doesn't talk about those people he misses from home, his fears, guilt, whatever, he can hardly imagine a situation in which bringing up the strange loneliness that her absence left in her place wouldn't be... what's the word?

Shameful? Mortifying? Humiliating?

He doesn't know, not any more than he knows how he actually felt about her in the first place. It's a painful, complicated knot of conflicted emotions and rhetorical questions, and Reggie feels some relief when it seems like Will's left and yet another night can pass without Reggie having to address the inevitable, or face anything but the bottom of the glass he's drinking from.

No such luck. ]

Uh-- [ Reggie doesn't make eye contact, slouching his shoulders and leaning his weight on his elbows, folded over the tabletop. ] Sure.

[ Well, it doesn't seem like Will's about to expose Reggie as underage for drinking, but weirdly that's still the least of Reggie's concerns. His eyebrows furrow and he finally glances over, his expression saying what do you want? without him actually having to ask the question himself.

In fact, he'd rather not ask it at all... because then Will might answer. God forbid. ]

How about shots? While you're in such a selfless mood.

[What do you want? face is returned with only a tilt of his head, an eyebrow lifting. But he doesn't ask. So Will's expression evens out and he glances toward any bartender just to establish some of that ol' eye contact that calls for services.

His eyebrow lifts again for a totally different reason at the request.]

All right. I'll do shots with you. [Only a shame April isn't here to watch. Or drink them both under the table. Alas. Another time.] See if you can keep up.

[o dear]

[ Will isn't exactly Reggie's ideal choice in company, but he's relieved enough not to be asked any awkward questions (yet) that he just nods his head, smirking in a not entirely convincing sort of way. ]

Yeah, I think so, old man-- they were calling me King of the Keggers in sixth grade, so I'm pretty sure I can handle it.

[ Obviously he's graduated from beer to... well, whatever he feels like at any given time, in this case probably either whiskey or tequila. ]

I'll even let you pick what we're drinking. You know, just to prove I'm a good sport and all.

[King of the Keggers in sixth grade, Jesus Christ this kid had some Issues And A Half. But he feels the whole good sport thing is just a bunch of shit so he will be the same sort of good sport in return.]

Hm. Gin it is.

[Would he prefer whiskey? Yes. But gin is garbage and they're both a bit garbage-y, and the least he could do is make sure Reggie remembers the taste of this evening later on, whether if it comes back around or if he just doesn't brush his teeth quickly enough. Adding flavors won't erase the all consuming shit taste that is gin. Gin is a SIN.]

It's not everyone's cup of tea; if you go for something else, that's okay.

[oh no, a challenge]

[ Wow Will you're not his real ~~step-~~dad... nor actually wrong in any way either, but once again, the unspoken between them in of itself speaks volumes.

And for the record, Reggie likes Will a lot more for the lack of interrogation. Not that it matters much what he thinks of him, especially with Sasha gone, but it's probably more comfortable for both of them this way.

Still, the choice of drink makes Reggie wrinkle his nose and raise an eyebrow. ]

Uh... [ He pauses, but then shrugs. ] I mean, sure, I guess... if that's what you're into. Gin isn't exactly what's known as the "good shit."

But it's fine. Bring it, gramps.

I'm not exactly known for preferring the good shit.

[An admission of once-poverty, or of simply horrible decisions; whatever the case, that's coupled with an actual smile as their bartender gets to business. As long as drinks are paid for and there's a nice enough tip, don't nobody care past that.]

You still working for Doctor Chilton?

[Will doesn't come around so much any more. It's a valid question that has nothing to do with coping mechanisms.]

I actually didn't know that... but I probably should have guessed.

[ Not because of anything Reggie knows or doesn't know about Will -- because frankly, he doesn't know much about Will in general -- but because of what Reggie knows and remembers about Sasha.

Substitute "good shit" with "high class" or "good taste" and the gist is the same.

Still, ugh. Gin.

Reggie shrugs his shoulders, but in a "I guess" sort of way. ]

He pays well. It's not that bad.

[ On another night, Reggie's bar excursions would hopefully prove to be somewhat less ill-fated or, at best, bound for painfully awkward tension, but with Reggie Mantle it's always hard to predict exactly how he'll either ruin things or just barely manage to scrape by intact. But "getting by" is a learned skill he's fairly decent at by now, so he tends not to overthink it-- a habit that can get him into trouble just as often as it can help him avoid it by inches.

The smart thing to do would be to cut back, at least, but Reggie's got too many things he needs to distract himself from, up to and including the new scar on his cheek.

Tonight it's a toss-up; it could easily go one way or the other. He's a couple drinks in already and got a decent buzz going when he sits down next to a girl at the bar, determining by her silhouette and the back of her head that she's decently hot. Somewhat familiar, too, but he attributes that more to having a type than the idea he might actually know her.

So, he offers as smoothly as he can manage: ]

Hey, how about I get your next drink? [ Then, after a pause: ] Nice ass, by the way.

[It is either very, very late or very, very early. The General himself isn't certain of the time. In the form he's mostly been keeping in - that of the cyborg - he needs little to no sleep or rest and so is up at all hours, regardless of the hour. Since his arrival, maybe only a few days previously, he's rarely seen his house-mates. He's been keeping to his room when he hasn't gone out completely, avoiding speaking or interacting although they probably know that a seven foot cyborg has joined them and may have seen him passing by, dismissing interactions with a growl or an icy stare.]

[Tonight he happens to step out of his room when Reggie is either leaving or coming in. There's a glare from those golden-yellow eyes as if Reggie is somehow intruding, rather than just being in the house they're sharing with others.]

[ Reggie's just coming in, not entirely aware of what time it is nor really caring, because though he's tired he still doesn't anticipate actually being able to sleep any time soon.

Especially not after seeing... good lord, who or what is that?

Eyes widening in surprise and mild fear, eyebrows furrowing, Reggie fumbles out his switch blade but makes no real move to use it, instead backing up until his back hits the front door. ]

Don't-- what the hell do you want?!

I want more privacy.

[The initial words were spoken in a dangerous tone; the voice itself like a low metallic growl. Although the content may not be as threatening as expected from such a sight. He doesn't like this shared accommodation.]

Uh...

[ Reggie seems somewhat taken aback by the answer; it's not exactly the response he was expecting, although what he was expecting he doesn't really know, either.

His brow furrows deeper, expression growing a bit more sour, but with a slightly shaking hand he puts his knife away again. He's not really practiced with it, but his nerves are so frayed from lack of rest it was the first thing he could think to do when seeing a strange creature(??) in the house. ]

Well, have you considered the yard? There's the door.

[ He gestures somewhat flippantly toward the back door, conveniently very far from where he's standing right now. He adds, with only mild indignation: ]

I live here.

So do I.

[He makes an expansive gesture with one six-clawed hand.]

At least temporarily.

In case you have never noticed... [He points behind him to the door he'd just exited.] ... that is my room. I know some of you humans live in here. I advise you all not to disturb me.

All I did was walk through the door. Of my house. This? [ Reggie gestures around the shared living room area. ] Not part of your room, I have as much right to be out here as you do. Even more, I mean, I've lived here longer.

[ Not that he's really keen, willing, or able to argue the point too strongly; Reggie talks big, but he's one of those "all bark, little-to-no bite" types. He crosses his arms, then carefully moves away from the door again to creep slowly in the direction of the stairs. ]

Same to you. I don't care what you do as long as you stay out of my room.

Good, then we are in agreement.

[While the words sound promising, the cyborg moves forward menacingly.]

[ Grievous moving forward only prompts Reggie to jerk backward again, pressing his back to the wall and trying to still inch his way to the stairs so he can hide in his room without moving from the wall. Possible, if not... a little tricky.

He'll find a way to deal with furniture obstacles as he comes upon them; if he has to he can always throw a chair, maybe. ]

... Yeah. [ He makes a shooing gesture with his hand, impatiently but mostly nervously. Grievous really creeps him out. ] So I mean, how 'bout we keep it that way.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I paced around for hours on empty, I jumped at the slightest of sounds

✘ J O S E P H ∎ K A V I N S K Y

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tw harassment, suicide, etc.

tw suicide mention/ideation (??)

nsfw;

✘ T A R A ∎ M A R K O V

AFTER 20 YEARS

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✘ W I L L ∎ G R A H A M

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✘ K I T T Y ∎ J O N E S

[Heropa - Cyborg in the house]

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