come and spend some time with mr. wrong

[theworstmagician]

Who: Marty, Will and OPEN
What: Mr. Hair tries to loot shops and fight monsters.
Where: Various places.
When: Any time over the course of the plot
Notes: This is a generic opening for Marty; you can assume he's doing this to several shops, so if you want to tag in, feel free to pick and choose what kind of shop you find him in.
Warnings: Violence, probably.

Some people never learn. Marty Williams is one of those people. In the past few days, he's used more magic than he had in weeks. This meant that it was bound to come crashing down on him somehow-- the fun was in finding out how and when. Hell, for all Marty knew, his magic didn't work the same in Baedal. Maybe it was easier to manage. Really, he wouldn't know unless he tried.

So, when he touches a doorknob and focuses his mind on disorder and disintegration, concentrates on shifting the smallest particles that made up the metal, tampering with the doorknob at its basest levels, he's really just testing the limits of his magic.

All things fall apart. He's just speeding up the process in three... two...

He jiggles the knob, smirking to himself when the door easily comes open. Sucks for the shopkeeper, whoever he is-- his lock's thoroughly broken now. 'Course, he probably has bigger things to worry about right now, like the bone dragon Marty saw flying around earlier.

Keeping a firm grip on his bloodied lead pipe, Marty enters the shop and begins looking around for valuables to loot.

He'd make a joke about being from New Orleans right now-- hey, this is how we roll in a post-Katrina world-- but the truth is: Marty's never looted anything before showing up in... what's this place called again? Beedle or something.

(Way to pay attention, Marty.)

Whatever, it's Monsterville now. And even though he's new to the whole "pillaging and plundering" business, Marty's finding that it comes surprisingly naturally to him. Maybe because this kind of thing's easy to do when the world's going to hell.

Comments

[theworstmagician]

Rule 1 of looting: never stick around the scene of the crime, especially with a bag full of shit you've just swiped off the shelves. Marty should've learned this by now, but he's always been a little slow to catch onto life lessons. Hey, it's part of his charm. So, rather than pack up the booze and run (what booze he can fit into his backpack, anyway. Sadly less than he'd like), Marty lingers, leaning against one of the shelves-- just around the corner from the entrance-- as he chugs a bottle of pink stuff.

No, it's not Pepto-Bismol. Whatever it is-- he doesn't know what language is on the label; it's like the love child of Russian and Sanskrit-- it doesn't taste half-bad. There's a smokey sort of aftertaste. Totally unexpected.

Shit's strong, too.

He tilts his head back and takes a good, long drink. At first, he pays no notice to the large man in leathers-- mainly because he doesn't realize the other man's even here. It's not until he lowers the bottle to his side, tapping it against his leg lazily, and starts around the corner that he spots the stranger.

Well, shit.

"Hey."

He motions with his hand, the one holding onto the neck of the bottle. It's better than swinging his pipe around and accidentally hitting the goods, anyway.

"Store's closed, man."

[thethingsidoforlove]

They have a way of speaking, in some cases, that Jaime has long since learned to blink away and cut to the meaning of. The meaning being here; dismissal and lying. His smile is somewhat compulsive, rarely pleasant, just the natural configuration his expression trends to. "Oh, that it is," he agrees, ever sardonic. There might be some other way out of this place, like a backroom for loading up stock, even a window, a stairwell; Jaime is standing in front of the entrance, either way.

He flicks a glance to the pipe, considering it, its length and weight, the grimy spatters that dirty it. Unfairly, Jaime has a sword at his hip, because he always has a sword even when the sky isn't spitting out dread monsters, but at least it isn't in hand.

"What is it they do to thieves where you're from, that makes you so fearless?" he asks, genuinely curious or seeming to be, green eyes skating back up to regard Marty and his prizes.

[theworstmagician]

Marty's casually scanning around the shop, watching out for an exit, because now that he sees that this guy has a sword, he's feeling a little less confident about his chances, y'know, should this turn into a fight. He's hoping it won't, of course, not because he's a pacifist or dislikes fighting or anything, but because he's lazy, and he really just wants to enjoy the spoils of all this fire and brimstone raining down on the city. Besides, it's not like the liquor store owner's gonna miss any of this. He, she, whoever, is probably dead.

Quite a few people seem to be dead now.

As far as Marty's concerned: all the more reason to enjoy himself. Life's too short to worry about shit like laws, rules, whatever, when there are hobgoblins from hell running around. Swords, on the other hand, are an actual cause for worry. His eyes catch the door to the storeroom, which appears to be equidistant from him and the big soldier (or cop. He figures the stranger's one of the two). Great. Might as well get a head start and hope that there's an exit out from the back.

"How d'you know this isn't my store?" he remarks, shooting the guy a grin that says all it needs to about whether or not Marty’s telling the truth. It's a sort of nudge-nudge, wink-wink, just between you and me grin. He strolls carelessly out, hands up, bottle and pipe in the air, edging towards that potential escape route just in case he needs it. "Besides, don't you have bigger fish to fry right now?"

[thethingsidoforlove]

Well, there's something in common. Jaime doesn't dislike fighting either.

He isn't a standard bully who goes exclusively for easy wins, such as sword vs. pipe, but he also isn't particularly discriminating about sentiments like going for your own size. The grin Marty shoots him is indulged, head cocked and listening, gently making his way further into the space with slow, casually quiet steps, more or less following or mirroring, depending on which direction Marty has set his course.

Soldier, police officer; 'knight' is sort of a combination of these concepts.

But more annoying.

"Where I am from," he continues, lazily, skating by words about frying fish or the openly ridiculous notion that Marty is looting his own store, "they like to take the fingers of thieves. Just one," because that makes it better. "If you leave with your earnings, I may be inclined to retrieve what you owe."

[theworstmagician]

Crud. There's a possibility he hadn't considered. Shitty as the cops are where he's from, they tend to draw the line at dismemberment, at least. In Marty's case, they tended to draw the line at a slap on the wrist, but to be fair, he hadn't had any serious encounters with one before.

"Where I'm from, cops have to show a badge before they start with the law and order," he retorts, matching that laziness even though he's starting to feel distinctly nervous. Idly, he wonders if he can use his magic to ignite the liquor and turn this bottle into a molotov cocktail-- but maybe that's overkill. Starting a fire in a liquor store is something so stupid even he wouldn't do it.

"May?" he repeats with a snort. To Marty, that 'may' means 'I'm open to a bribe.' Whether or not that's true, well... "Look, it's the end of the world, and I don't know if you've noticed? But there are monsters, like, everywhere. You can't tell me you didn't come in here for a drink, too." Marty, this is not how you try to bribe somebody. "Don't worry, I left the good stuff." Jerking his head in the direction he game from. "Aged scotch and all that shit? All yours."

He holds up his bottle and waggles it slowly. "And it's not like I can really return this, y'know."

[thethingsidoforlove]

"If you drink anymore of it, a boy like you might leave it behind whether you wish it or not."

What's a little liquor-related ribbing between--

No, Jaime doesn't make friends easily; possibly because he threatens people with swords, but in fairness, looting is as forgivable in medieval Westoros as it is in monster-torn Baedal. He has no frame of reference, naturally, of a flooded New Orleans. His smile is natural, there, but a little crooked; green eyes flick towards the direction that Marty indicates.

"Bribery? With a currency that isn't yours to be traded. I admire your enterprise. But no, I came in here to deal with you. Abandon what you have," he says, and this time, removes his sword from its sheath, "or I shall win back all you've taken. One way or another."

He doesn't have a badge, though. It doesn't appear to be a concern for Jaime.

[theworstmagician]

Now Marty gets why people are all "Fuck the police," because this guy is totally harshing his buzz here. He regards his bottle, then the man-- who, let's not kid ourselves here, can totally follow up on his threats-- then the bottle again. This shouldn't be such a difficult choice. But, damn it, he earned this, and it's the freaking end of the world. A man's entitled to a free drink or two (or more).

"Fine," he says finally, holding the bottle up placatingly. "You got me."

Yup, time to pack it up and head on out.

"Catch." Marty tosses the bottle at the other man-- well, it's a little harder than a toss, but not quite a throw. He's not looking to actually bean the medieval cop with a glass bottle or anything. All he's after is a quick diversion so he can grab his bag and start for the back room.