Jason Todd (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asinisterkid) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2015-04-27 12:38 am
asinisterkid) wrote in driftfleet2015-04-27 12:38 am
Entry tags:
002
Who: Jason Todd, and whoever wants to bother him.
Broadcast: None
Action: VRD // Waystation
When: 4/21, in the wee hours of the morning // 4/27, mid-afternoon.
{{ It's two, two, two events in one! The first will be a lovely VR romp through Gotham at night, set up for his new friends, but open to anyone who feels like crashing the party. The second, taking place a week later in honor of Jason's Death Day (4/27), will involve a lot of alcohol. OMG SO MUCH ALCOHOL. And as many fights as he can get away with starting at the nearest Waystation. }}
[ For the moment, half of the VRD has been turned into a little slice of Gotham, all gargoyle-encrusted skyscrapers and gothic splendor. There's a full moon overhead, and only the smallest shreds of cloud. Between that and the ambient light from the city, visibility's pretty good. It's a gorgeous summer night, and Jason's relaxing for the first time since he got here.
It's a cheap trick, but he's willing to be soothed by this little taste of home, especially since this place should allow him to run the way he's used to. He even went out of his way to pick a time when there would be less competition for the space, and less chance of someone turning his city into a beach mid-jump.
Robins need to fly, after all. ]
[A week later: Jason hasn't had a chance to earn much money yet, but he's spent some of the past week working security, picking up what he can. And now that he's got money to put towards things not a ship upgrade, he's gone and spent it on alcohol.
Yes, all of it.
This isn't a good day for him. This is the day that Jason Todd, Age 15, got beaten nearly to death with a crowbar and then blown up. He's been increasingly keyed up over the past couple of days, the nightmares getting more frequent, and generally he's been feeling like there's a scream trapped in his throat, getting louder and louder...
So obviously, the solution is no sleep, and lots of alcohol. He's got a few bottles of something that might be space vodka, or might be industrial strength engine degreaser with a vodka label half-assedly slapped on the bottle. It tastes foul, either way. He's sitting in the central courtyard of the waystation, already halfway through the first bottle. When not sending drunken text messages with his communicator, he's been harassing random people. ]
Hey, you. Yeah, you.
Fight me.
[ Is he talking to you? A random passerby? A potted plant and/or especially lifelike bit of statuary? YOU BE THE JUDGE. ]
Broadcast: None
Action: VRD // Waystation
When: 4/21, in the wee hours of the morning // 4/27, mid-afternoon.
{{ It's two, two, two events in one! The first will be a lovely VR romp through Gotham at night, set up for his new friends, but open to anyone who feels like crashing the party. The second, taking place a week later in honor of Jason's Death Day (4/27), will involve a lot of alcohol. OMG SO MUCH ALCOHOL. And as many fights as he can get away with starting at the nearest Waystation. }}
[ For the moment, half of the VRD has been turned into a little slice of Gotham, all gargoyle-encrusted skyscrapers and gothic splendor. There's a full moon overhead, and only the smallest shreds of cloud. Between that and the ambient light from the city, visibility's pretty good. It's a gorgeous summer night, and Jason's relaxing for the first time since he got here.
It's a cheap trick, but he's willing to be soothed by this little taste of home, especially since this place should allow him to run the way he's used to. He even went out of his way to pick a time when there would be less competition for the space, and less chance of someone turning his city into a beach mid-jump.
Robins need to fly, after all. ]
[A week later: Jason hasn't had a chance to earn much money yet, but he's spent some of the past week working security, picking up what he can. And now that he's got money to put towards things not a ship upgrade, he's gone and spent it on alcohol.
Yes, all of it.
This isn't a good day for him. This is the day that Jason Todd, Age 15, got beaten nearly to death with a crowbar and then blown up. He's been increasingly keyed up over the past couple of days, the nightmares getting more frequent, and generally he's been feeling like there's a scream trapped in his throat, getting louder and louder...
So obviously, the solution is no sleep, and lots of alcohol. He's got a few bottles of something that might be space vodka, or might be industrial strength engine degreaser with a vodka label half-assedly slapped on the bottle. It tastes foul, either way. He's sitting in the central courtyard of the waystation, already halfway through the first bottle. When not sending drunken text messages with his communicator, he's been harassing random people. ]
Hey, you. Yeah, you.
Fight me.
[ Is he talking to you? A random passerby? A potted plant and/or especially lifelike bit of statuary? YOU BE THE JUDGE. ]
no subject
Broken noses heal. And I'm not hassling--
[ Yeah, not even his denial is that great. ]
Well, fine, I am. But I'm also taking no for an answer, so I ought to at least get the [ airquotes ] 'not as big a dick as you could've been' gold star or something.
Still. Nothing wrong with some good old-fashioned mutually agreeable face-punching.
no subject
[ He thinks about it a moment, and then offers the drunk a cigarette. There are a lot of reasons to get zotzed out of one's mind here. He figures he can sympathize with at least three-fourths of them. ]
no subject
[ The smile he gives Ladon is equal parts charm and smartassery. Sometimes it gets him a new friend, and sometimes it gets him a punch to the face, but those are the breaks.
The cigarette, however, is accepted with the look of someone who's just gotten the best surprise ever. He may be only an occasional smoker, but sometimes he just really needs a little bit of nicotine. Horrible anniversaries are definitely among those times, even if booze was his priority. ]
...Thanks.
no subject
A few years ago, he would be too angry to bother with a smart-mouthed, drunk kid. Now he lights the cigarette for him before leaning on a nearby wall to puff on his own. ]
Looked like you could use a smoke. Just don't blow up or nothin', yeah?
[ Because man, you reek of booze. ]
no subject
You got something I can call you, or do I go with "Exalted Giver of Nicotine"?
[ He takes a deep drag off the cigarette and feels the tension in his shoulders relax in a way that even the alcohol couldn't touch. He's been smoking since he was nine years old, and it's still a comforting habit for him, a decade later. ]
no subject
[ Depending on how drunk he is, it's possible he won't be remembered as anything more than some guy who showed up and gave him a cigarette, but hey. He's got no reason to refuse his name to anyone here. ]
You?
no subject
You go playing Good Samaritan to drunken assholes often, Ladon?
Or do you prefer Mr. Ceto?
[ Now that he's said the name, he'll be more likely to remember it when he's sober. And that done, he goes back to smoking intently. Luxuries seem easy enough to obtain here, but who knows when that'll be the case again? ]
no subject
And Ladon's fine.
[ He's just thankful no one's tried to call him "Donnie" yet. The variety of names here has given people a level of tolerance for oddness that the criminals he works with back home don't have. ]
no subject
I'll spare you the long and depressing story of why I'm so thoroughly shitfaced, then. Probably heard enough of those to last you a while.
no subject
Back home, s'all the same sob story. Gotta say, pourin' drinks for folks from other worlds? Always an eye-openin' experience. [ And it's a lot easier to let the woes of people he doesn't share a world with roll off his shoulders, especially if he hasn't gotten attached. ]
no subject
[ Yes, he has preferred methods of taking down robots. ...What?
He rubs the back of his neck for a moment, and considers just how much he wants to say. ]
...I died. Four years ago today. It was ugly.
That a story you heard a lot of, back home?
no subject
[ Because yeah, he's gone through one of those before. Sacrosanct was a hell of a place. ]
Back home, nah. Don't have the fucked up death-don't-last rules these fuckin' places tend t'have. [ He gestures vaguely, as if addressing the whole situation they've found themselves in. ] S'easier, I guess, knowin' the end's the end. So Atroma brought you back?
no subject
I don't know what brought me back, actually. It happened before I came here. Woke up in my coffin... I don't know how long after it happened. Dug my way out, walked for a long fucking time before someone found me. [ There's a certain dullness to his voice that suggests he's trying not to think too hard abut what he's saying. If he can make it sound like it doesn't mean anything, then maybe it won't. ]
no subject
Regardless, coming back from the dead... No wonder the kid's drunk out of his mind. ] Not sure booze'd be 'nough to drown somethin' like that.
no subject
Which would be why, on this particular anniversary, I'm going to booze plus fight method. When I came back, I wasn't healed or nothin'. [ There's a little bit of a North Jersey accent creeping into his voice. Apparently he's at that stage of drunkenness. ] I was just... alive.
And brains. Brains are fuckin' weird. Wake up from a nightmare where you're dying, and sometimes there's a few minutes where you still feel it, you know? Gets hard figuring out what's real. [ And if he never has to spend another morning convincing himself he's not still in that coffin, he'll be a happy, happy man. ]
Waking up with a black eye, a split lip, some non-crowbar bruises? Makes me breathe easier. It's different, but it's not a blank canvas for my brain to fuck up for me.
no subject
He finishes his cigarette, tosses it down on the ground and snubs it out with the toe of his shoe. ] Can't help you there. Roughed up my share of lugs, but that ain't a path I like walkin'.
[ And he's definitely not slugging someone who's dealt with coming back from the dead. ] Better'n puttin' junk up your nose or in your arm, but...
[ It still isn't healthy. But Ladon trails off before he can say as much. Who the hell is he to judge healthy coping methods? If he doesn't drink himself stupid, he finds a cave to hide in for weeks at time. Healthy has never been on his list of ways to recover from trauma or heartbreak. ]
no subject
[ And Ladon keeps talking, and there's something in Jason's face that goes hard at the mention of putting junk in his arm. He tries not to think about his mom -- Catherine-mom, not Sheila -- but right now his head's already full of memories, and what's one more? ]
That's not a coping strategy I've ever used. But my -- I knew someone who did. Sometimes it's all that keeps you alive.
...Until it kills you, anyway. Pretty sure that goes for everything, though.
If it helps, usually I take my beatings in the process of doing bad things to bad people. Helping good people where I can. That kinda thing. Was doing that even before I died. Not a lot of people in peril around here, though.
But hey, if the job kills me all over again, at least I'll die useful. [ ...He may not have intended to say that out loud. ]
no subject
He's glad he doesn't have a zombie vigilante with a massive chip on his shoulder on his case. The cops and fellow gangsters are bad enough. ]
Space's got a way of puttin' us all on the same page, yeah? 'Specially since the ones who could really use a good beatin' are hidin' behind cameras. Hell, even shootin' at those enemy ships wasn't satisfyin'. Necessary, but nothin' like the real thing, yeah?
no subject
[ He shrugs. Even as drunk as he is at the moment, he notices that reaction. ]
And yeah. I mean, there's a guy from back home who I hate on principle, but other than that... We're all abductees together, right? So long as no one's preying on people weaker than them, I can be a good boy and keep the fights consensual.
no subject
[ He shakes his head. ] Yeah, so far no dice on that front. Atroma's a buncha fuckers, but hell if they ain't at least pullin' in decent folks. No one worth gettin' gashouse on, anyhow. Had our share of trouble on the station, glad that ain't the case here. Didn't matter how much we'd put 'em down, they just popped outta the teleporters again like nothin' happened. Made solvin' real problems impossible.