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redshiftlogs2020-12-02 12:37 pm
numerouno) wrote in redshiftlogs2020-12-02 12:37 pm
Never play anything the same way twice.
Who: Scaramouche (OTA)
What: Scaramouche has returned! Open TL + closed starters etc,. Hmu on discord, plurk, or through PM for plotting!
When: Catch-all for December?
Where: All around Anchor.
Warnings: None so far, will add them to subject lines if anything pops up.
Note: Prose or brackets is fine! Will match format.
What: Scaramouche has returned! Open TL + closed starters etc,. Hmu on discord, plurk, or through PM for plotting!
When: Catch-all for December?
Where: All around Anchor.
Warnings: None so far, will add them to subject lines if anything pops up.
Note: Prose or brackets is fine! Will match format.
Around Anchor (OTA)
His ride broke down a third of the way there, can you believe it? But it took more than that to stop Scaramouche! He was a bot on a mission. So after a couple of weeks on foot, he made it to the big city. He ran into five creatures, big and small, along the way, and his legs were straining under the pressure of high winds, not to mention the weight of the sand that had gotten inside the tears in his suit...
But he made it.
Looked like the city had shut up shop a long time ago. Every building on every block that he checked was sealed up. He could have brandished his dagger right then and there, but he wanted to know who or what could be hiding inside them. He remembers looking to the red sky after a while and leaping his way up the lofty platforms and shelves jutting out of some of the structures, the whistle of the wind and the rattle of his blades in their sheathes accompanying each spring. It took forever--as it turned out, making most of the journey on foot had taken it out of him--but he eventually got to the top of the tallest building possible.
A practiced scrape of the dagger across the roof hatch and Scaramouche was smiling again. Once it was blown open, he could start turning the place over and take cover from all this dust.
Only it didn't blow open.
The crescendo of the high-pitched ringing hit its peak and instead of getting blown inward, the hatch vibrated violently in its frame; not a fracture in sight. There was a delay, a shuddering. Suddenly, the force of the explosion resonated outward.
Scaramouche was thrown clear of the skyscraper.
The next thing he knew, it was dark out, and the hand that should have been holding his dagger tight was clinging to a fistful of sand; the blast must have sent it flying off somewhere. So he dragged himself down those lonely, windswept streets, miles away from Anchor, thick gloved fingers raking through thick red dust, clawing and grabbing for purchase to get himself where he needed to be.
It took days to find it. He clung to the weapon like a lifeline and relaxed for a moment, at long last, to catch his breath; was it just him or was he running out of it? He was sprawled out like that for who knows how long, the unwelcome static creeping at the edges of his vision becoming worse, blacking things out. Soon the sand piled up on him, weighing him down. He kept telling himself he had to get moving.
The last thing he remembers? Fumbling for his phone and holding it to his face, checking the screen and seeing no bars. It didn't come as a surprise at the time. He just thought his luck might have turned around by then.
An unremarkable ceiling fizzles into view.
Scaramouche stares at it for a good few seconds, processing the crisp image before his eyes. No static. He's back on his feet in a flash, optics as wide as can be. A cracked display on the wall, a broken fountain; he knows where he is, AND he knows what he is!
"I'm ALIVE!"
He belts it out again and again for nobody to hear, cutting a jig while he's at it.
"I'm aliii-- ♫ -- augh!"
The man in the recording keeps talking, unperturbed by the interruption. Scaramouche lifts his face off the floor with a groan and shakes his head. His legs just went out from under him. He gets up again, brushes himself off-- "Huh." ...tentatively tests them out for all of three steps, then smiles before he starts to make for the decontam-- "Ohh--!" No, no, too fast and his knees start to buckle.
He stares down at himself.
Later, he asks himself: how'd he get here, anyway? Who found him? Why'd they leave him in there?
It doesn't matter.
[ooc: Pick any location in Anchor and I'll roll with it! Just assume he's A) trying to stroll about and being kind of awkward and slow about it, B) faceplanting or stumbling in his steps, or C) sitting in a chair or something.]
by the shops
Finnick notices the stumble, of course; he knows enough people carrying enough injuries from the arena or from fishing accidents that he's sympathetic to the sight. (He'd had to carry Annie down the stairs on her victory tour because her mind told her that her legs would break if she walked.)
He's still not entirely used to interacting with bots like they're people, but it's a little easier with Scaramouche; he's one of the people like Finnick and Annie who have been brought here, not one of the bots from the city.
no subject
He heaves a low, weary sigh and replies, "Sure I am," not bothering to look at who's asking.
in the bar~
In fact, that's what he's doing right now. Normally the Anchorbots handle their own maintenance, but occasionally one will flag Qubit down to request some minor fix or other so it doesn't have to go all the way to a repair station. It's a bit of a nuisance, but if it's something quick he'll usually oblige them. They do ask nicely, after all.
And that's how he ended up performing ad hoc robot surgery in the middle of the bar. The robot (not the bartending one, sorry to say) is laid out facedown on a table, its back panel removed, while Qubit works on it with a screwdriver; a small handful of screws jingles pleasantly as he drops them into a highball glass.
Just as he reaches the offending component, though, he hears a familiar voice - unforgettable, really, for better or worse - and who should come traipsing in but Scaramouche. Qubit visibly double-takes when he spots him, and watches him quizzically, resting the hand with the screwdriver on his hip. Honestly, he'd figured the guy got Ported out months ago. He's not necessarily upset about his return, but - well, it's not like he shed any tears over his absence, either.
"Huh," he says, and that about sums it up. "Scaramouche. Can't say I expected to run into you today."