multiversallogs | come and spend some time with mr. wrong

Entry tags:

come and spend some time with mr. wrong

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.

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Wolfgang pauses just outside the threshold of the shop, having almost missed the fact that the door's lock is busted. Something is in there and he's not about to waltz blindly into a potentially dangerous enclosed area armed with a weapon that's not very familiar to him.

So he probes it first, like flexing a muscle he hasn't used in years. His psychic presence rolls through the building, the barest mental brush against whatever minds are contained therein. Surface thoughts are all he's listening for, which, well, that's all he can listen for. It's not a surefire recon method because many of the monsters infesting the city are psychic blind spots, but it's better than nothing. Whatever is in there is human and neither insane nor dying, so he walks in with only a moderate amount of caution instead of being at red alert.

There's blood in his hair and he's carrying a baseball bat with nails hammered into one end, but considering he's built like an eleven-year-old girl and about as strong as one, he is probably the least threatening person in the city right now. He is alone. He sees a man with a pipe who he doesn't recognise, and that's all; he relaxes.

"Find anything good?" he asks, dryly. It's not a condemnation -- he has no way of telling whether anyone is taking anything because they need it or just because they want it. He did see someone grabbing a bunch of antiques the other day, but whatever, he's not the police, he's not going to do anything about it.

God knows if the Militia are; he's staying out of their way as much as possible.

Edited 2012-03-07 06:45 (UTC)

The dull hilt of his knife soundlessly connects with the shop door, and Jaime tilts his head as he watches it swing open beneath minute pressure, whatever mechanism that had once kept it locked or even closed quite obviously... no longer doing so. He didn't exactly see what the young man had done, but he knows that this particular store has been closed for business since the queer storms began, although truly, what better time to open the doors for the purchase of home-brewed beers and spirits from other worlds? Bottles glisten on shelving and displays, but the expensive, dusty brews have been locked in closing cabinets, gates drawn across others.

Jaime isn't sure how he feels, about thieves. His sense of loyalty to the city is a lazy thing, as respectful as a cat that's been shut inside someone's home, and his sense of justice is, at best, somewhat lax. At least, when it applies to him.

But by the Seven, does he need something to do.

A glance back at the empty street confirms that no, the Militia are not marching down the cobblestone as Jaime thinks it over. He slips inside, paying tribute to caution by being quiet, but he's just a man, a rather large one by some standards, and eventually, someone is going to see the other. He wears leather, mainly, some cotton, in colours of browns, tans, and creams that, in some shades, make him seem golden all over, or faded. Nothing very official about his dress sense, antiquated as it is, and certainly nothing official about the fancy knife he carries. Looter, or enforcer of the law? To be honest, Jaime hasn't decided yet himself.

Edited 2012-03-07 14:49 (UTC)

Will's mostly lost track of the network, since the world went all to shit. He's spent most of his time running around the city, trying to help herd evacuees, and dealing with the occasional horrifying beast. It's frustrating – he'd be a lot more effective if he had one of the machines from home. Actually, he'd be fucking unstoppable with one of those, and maybe he should see if anyone around the Lot could reproduce one, however unlikely it is, because he's not really in his element with hand-to-hand combat. Well. He's not in anything remotely resembling his element at the moment.

Anyway.

The point is, he's been busy. He's only glanced at the network once or twice since all this started, and maybe he should have sent out hey-are-you-okay texts but he's been a bit preoccupied in general, anyway. And the only time he's bothered to poke at the network recently, just to make sure someone wasn't dead, he'd gotten hung up on.

Oh. Speaking of, there he is now. Rude Guy. Awesome. Will slows down to eye the small pile of goods accumulated beside Marty. “Really?” he says.

Marty doesn't know what half of this shit does, but he's taking it anyway. Some out of necessity-- painkillers are pretty useful when there are creepy crawlies out to eat the town-- and some are just for fun. Anything that isn't necessary or fun is getting tossed into the "profit???" pile on the now-cluttered countertop. He can sell... sinus pills to somebody when this is over, he's sure. Okay, then. Tossing that in the pile now.

Marty Williams: prescription drug dealer. He's found his new calling.

He's counting his stash when the door creaks open. Marty swings his pipe up and rests it on his shoulder, preparing for battle all casual-like.

Ignore the blood he's just gotten on his shirt. (He should really clean this pipe.)

Once he gets a look at the interloper, Marty relaxes a smidgen... not that it's obvious with the lackadaisical way he's carrying himself. He's pretty sure Wolfgang's just some skinny chick looking to score some free shit. Or... skinny dude. Okay, the latter's more or less confirmed when the new guy speaks. In any case, there are enough pills to go around, so what does Marty care.

"I think I found some medieval Ritalin," he remarks lazily, tossing a bottle up and down in one hand.

Edited 2012-03-08 03:44 (UTC)

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."

What Will is treated to is the majestic sight of Marty, audaciously shirtless, pulling a pair of boots on over his now jean-clad legs. That's right, Papa's got a brand new outfit. Hey, the tuxedo might've been classy, but there was only so long he could wear it before it started to get a little rank.

Once blood and demon dog brains were added to the already-ripe mix, well, there was no saving it. Now, Marty's rocking the casual-cool look. Jeans, boots, and...

"Hey." It's that-guy. The Asian dude from the Network. "So you're not dead." A beat. "Which one d'you think is better?"

Marty's holding up two t-shirts for Will's approval. This is very important, because he's sure as shit not going into the apocalypse half naked. One of those monsters could claw a nipple off or something.

"You think?" He sounds extremely doubtful. "I hope you're not planning on taking it, then."

Wolfgang drops the backpack he's carrying -- it's empty -- on the floor as he surveys the pharmacy. The locked door must have discouraged anyone else from coming in here because it's still pretty full; Marty might be the first person to have come in here since it closed. That suits him, he can get all this done in one trip instead of having to find a grocery.

He takes food off the shelves, the canned stuff that ought to last for a while, arranging it on the counter before he pulls out some string. He does some kind of cat's cradle thing over it and when he's done, pulling a loop through a hole in the string, the entire collection shrinks down to Barbie-sized. He could carry all that in his pocket; how handy.

He doesn't think twice about using magic in front of other people, in spite of the instinctive understanding he had as a child that nobody could know. Baedal is a city run by magic and it's as common as electricity, there's no reason to hide here. No Bad Suits.

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.

Edited 2012-03-08 11:37 (UTC)

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?"

"Why not?" he says in a voice that suggests he's totally going to take it, although he really has no plans for the drugs. Maybe he'll try them after this is all over. "Maybe it'll give me this..." He points his pipe out like he's aiming a gun. "...laser-like focus when I'm killing zombies or whatever." That's how Ritalin works, right?

He drops the pills on the counter and props his elbows up, leaning forward to watch Wolfgang pick out his goods. Okay, so going after the canned stuff makes sense. A lot more sense than breaking into a bakery and taking stale bagels and fruit that was thiiis close to going off, which was what Marty spent his morning doing.

He arches a brow when that string's pulled out, but to his credit, he doesn't say anything. Yet. For now, he watches Wolfgang's movements, wondering why the hell the guy's playing cat's cradle while there are monsters outside.

And then the cans shrink before his eyes. Marty's scrambling over the counter to get a better look, awestruck because that's either one damn fine illusion (in which case, he needs to learn it if he ever picks up the "magician" gig again) or because the two of them have more in common than he thought.

"What's next, can you make the building disappear?"

Well, it's a better conversation starter than "I can do magic, too!"

Will doesn't answer for a moment, eyebrows climbing as close to his hairline as they can get. He understands not being particularly invested in fighting monsters, especially as someone new, and the cavalier attitude isn't exactly earthshaking, but somehow it's still surprising.

“It's not really a good time to go shopping,” he says. 'Shopping.'

Now it's time for Marty's brow to go up. "You think I'm shopping?" Shopping implies that he's going to leave money. Marty shrugs. "Green's better." He holds the shirt up to his chest and leans up to Will. "Brings out my eyes, don't you think?"

Yeah, he's just messing with the guy now. He pulls on the shirt and begins to button it. "I think a leather jacket will complete the ensemble." Pause. "So what're you doing here if you're not 'shopping'?"

"Or it could... give you seizures or something." This is coming from the guy who's been using prescription psychiatric medication without the supervision of a doctor for three years, under the assumption that just because they've stopped his hallucinations, that must mean they're helpful. He is king of the hypocrites, everyone bow down.

Wolfgang tosses the shrunken food in his bag and starts the whole process over again, startling visibly when Marty comes closer to examine the process; he's jumpy, this guy.

Can he make the building disappear?

He blinks, a little bewildered, as he takes the time to actually seriously consider that. He doesn't know even half of what he can do, only has a sort of instinctual understanding of it where he should have spent the past twenty years being taught focus and discipline -- shrinking and growing objects is one of the most complex things he can remember how to do.

"You mean without blowing it up?" ... honey.

“Getting back from a rescue mission,” Will says, frowning at Marty. He's really only heading back to his apartment to clean up a little and eat something – maybe spend half an hour in plainclothes – and then he'll be heading back out to see if he can help with anything. Collaborating so closely with the militia makes him uneasy, but there isn't much choice right now. They're willing to protect the general public against the invading monsters, at least, even if no one knows what's going on. “Was this really your first thought?”

"What are you, a cop?" he asks dismissively, but it's clear that Marty's attention's set to bigger and better things, namely the leather jacket he's just plucked from a hanger. He shrugs it on and steps in front of one of the display mirrors. He gives a manly twirl and pose, just making sure it's not too "80s biker" or something. At Will's question, Marty seems to come back down to reality.

"It became a priority when this little monster frog almost tore the crotch out of my pants." He smirks and taps at his leg. "Denim's durable."

That Marty. He's a planner. He moves over to his backpack, kicking aside the pile made up of his old clothes. Reaching into the bag, he pulls out a bottle of unidentifiable liquor.

"This was my first thought."

And he takes a drink.

Edited 2012-03-09 05:53 (UTC)

Will's eyebrows jump again, though this time it's more distaste than anything. “I'm glad you have your priorities in order,” he says, not even attempting to keep his tone neutral. He can't get too indignant on anyone's behalf – for all he knows, the shop proprietors are dead – but he definitely doesn't approve. “Maybe you should come to the safehouse,” he says. “It's warded and it keeps the monsters out.” And someone could babysit this guy and keep him from ripping more people off, maybe.

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."

Marty shrugs off the possibility of a seizure, because while he's sure that can happen to somebody, he's pretty sure it won't happen to him. It's one of those Somebody Else problems, like so many things in the world. Such as "consequences for one's actions," for example.

He raises his brow. Blowing it up? Fun as that would be, it's not quite what he has in mind. He leans in closer all chummy-like-- because what is personal space?-- and says, "Pretty sure that would be cheating. I'm talking David Copperfield shit. Like. 'Put a sheet over the Statue of Liberty and make it disappear.'" And now, a tangent. "I could never do it with the big things. You know, when it's like. Something little, like a kid?" He snaps his fingers. "Easy. It's all in the mirrors."

He cranes his neck and looks around. "But I'm not seeing any, so...?"

Still not accustomed to a world where one can practice magic openly, he's waiting for Wolfgang to make the first mention of magic magic.

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."

Hey, don't judge, man. Marty shrugs and takes a drink. This stuff, whatever it is, is a little fruity for his tastes, but it'll do the trick, keep his nice buzz going while he hides out from monsters and goes on a nice shopping spree while he's at it.

"They're doing me right so far," he counters, setting the bottle back down. He saunters over to one of the racks and begins thumbing through shirts. Might as well grab a few outfits, just in case.

"Yeah, I'll go. I mean, once I'm done." He turns to Will and grins. "There's a whole city to explore first." Wiiiink. Right. 'Explore.'

Pause.

Wait.

"There's a safehouse?"

How are you still alive, Marty?

Wolfgang leans away to keep approximately the same distance between them -- because oh god personal space -- and is seriously alarmed for a moment at the idea of disappearing a child until he figures... no, he doesn't mean literally.

"You're new, yes?" Educated guess, since most Baedalites would assume actual magic. Which means this guy is in his Cohort. He should keep better track of the Network, he makes a note to do that as soon as he finds his CiD again. He gnaws on his lip for a moment because still in Baedal he has to fight against his natural inclination to keep this secret, which is ridiculous. Nobody here cares. There are bigger and badder mages who do more casual magic than him daily. He shrugs, finally. "I don't do illusion. I think I could make a building disappear but I don't know where I would put it instead."

Just drop a house on someone in the spirit world, they love that shit.

"Hey." Oh, wait, 'You're new' isn't an insult so much as a statement of fact. He props his elbow on the counter again and leans his face against it. "Yeahhh. Kinda." A thoughtful pause. "They should give people medals for making it a week here."

He wraps his fingers over his chin and taps at his upper lip, thinking deeply on Wolfgang's words. Really, he's thinking about the whole "dropping a house on someone" thing, too-- mainly thinking about how totally amazing that would be. It would be like the ultimate display of magical prowess.

Marty doesn't think all that big.

"What else could you do?" Marty's own magic being as limited as it is-- and usually nothing anybody can see-- he feels like he's just stumbled upon Merlin or something.

Wolfgang works as he talks, clearing out a lot of the food; he leaves some behind for other people, but he's got a long list of stuff they need. After food, he goes for medicine, picking out stuff that isn't valuable in terms of recreational use -- anti-inflammatory drugs, prepackaged herbal mixes, blood restoration potions. How boring. He's going to have to go behind the counter to look for stronger stuff, which he's reluctant to do with another person around.

He doesn't want anyone knowing that he takes clozapine.

"It's usually not this bad..." A pause, then he pulls a face. "I mean, not -- it's usually not bad. Period." Just in case Marty gets the idea that Baedal is generally only slightly less monster-infested; Wolfgang is going to be fair, even if the city's taken a big shit on him so far. Millions of people managed to live perfectly safe, comfortable lives here up until now.

"I don't know, exactly. The... magic thing --" There's the m-word for you, Marty, and he does sound extremely reluctant to actually give voice to it for various reasons, among them being that it's super weird, "-- is sort of new."

Will has no idea. And he doesn't really want to know, probably.

“Yes,” he says, dragging the syllable out. Pay attention, Marty. He just told you that. “There are a few, actually. It helps cut down on the number of people becoming monster snacks.”

"Yeah, well." Marty pulls a shirt off the hanger and holds it up to his chest. Hmm. Burgundy. That's flattering, right? "I can take the monsters." Of course, 'can' doesn't mean he actually wants to, so he's filing that safe house tidbit away for later. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."

Like the gun he found on a dead guy. It's pretty cool-- all old timey, like a six shooter or something. And it still has four bullets left, which he made a point of imbuing with some good luck. Currently, that special gun is wrapped up in his backpack with his other ill-gotten gains.

He tosses the shirt aside and starts inspecting the others. So absorbed in, well, himself is he that when something groans from the back room of the shop, he doesn't even notice.

Marty shrugs, conceding that maybe it isn't always bad. After all, he did get like, five hours of seeming normalcy before the terrorist threats started and the sky ripped open. It's possible Baedal isn't a total shit-hole 24-7. Right now, he doesn't care about that so much as he's fixating on the magic.

"Not bad for someone new. You, uh." He's uncharacteristically hesitant, trying to choose his words carefully for once. This is the first time he's talked about magic with somebody who wasn't his sister, and it's kind of... weird. "Anyone teach you, or what? I mean, because the most impressive thing I can do is make a coin land on heads like, a hundred times in a row."

His hands pause midway through what he's doing before he goes on with it. "No." His smile is hesitant and unsure because he has no idea if that's normal or not. (He suspects it isn't.) "Well, that's not easy -- producing the same effect consistently, I mean."

... at least it's not for him, but Wolfgang's magic likes to do whatever the hell it wants and drag him along after it; he feels a sense of relief when he actually gets it to do exactly what he wants it to do, like now; later, when he has to un-shrink these things? God knows. They could very well end up with a can full of peas the size of golf balls. He can never seem to get them the right size again. "It's, um, very common here -- magic in general. There's a whole college for it at TMU, but I don't know how... effective they are."

When he worked there, he avoided it. It really freaked him out and also is possibly full of crazy people.

"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.

That much, Marty can relate to. His magic has been known to be unreliable, inconsistent at best. Dealing with luck may have its perks from time to time (otherwise he wouldn't do it), but fate's fickle. The whole "be careful what you wish for" thing has hit him in the face more than enough times.

"There's a wizard school here?" He sounds a little too excited at the prospect-- Marty may have the completely wrong impression of the TMU. He's picturing something whimsical with flying books and magic number 2 pencils. "Aw man, you don't think--"

He pauses, glancing at the door. Right, there are still... monsters outside. Which means it's probably not the best time to think about Wizard U. Or, rather, he should shift gears a little and...

"How... y'know, secure d'you think that place is? If somebody were to," he shrugs. "Go there for... protection."

Loot it.

Hey, magical trinkets could sell for a lot. Maybe.

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.

"Um," he says.

Wolfgang glances at the pile of miscellaneous crap Marty has acquired, the pile of valuables and the discarded worthless ones. Someone else might encourage Marty to do exactly that, because a) it would be hilarious, and b) it's really better for someone to learn not to... ask for protection on their own -- and Wolfgang's hesitation is clear on his face because he sort of gets the sense that maybe that's the case, here.

But he can't just let him run off to the MAF and get turned into a toad (or worse) without at least trying. The college is aligned with Shada; he's seen what he was assured were realistic drawn renditions of what her children look like.

"If you're looking for protection, you'd have better luck at one of the safe houses," he says instead, carefully. "They've probably shut down because of the crisis, um... and I've heard things." He gives him what he hopes is a significant look. "About that school."

That it isn't Pigfarts.

“Well,” Will says, back up a little into the most open part of the shop – the should really go outside, probably, if they get the chance – “you're probably going to have to try them out.” He's not sure what that sounds like – doesn't care what it sounds like, really, but it's not good. “We've got company.”

Granted, other than the 'horrible monster intent on eating my face' factor, Will kind of figures he's already scraping the bottom of the barrel in terms of people he'd like to be hanging out with. It could be worse, he supposes. At least Marty seems like he knows his way around that pipe.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

come and spend some time with mr. wrong

mog hill pharmacy?? also yell at me if the telepathy's not ok

griss twist store, liquor.

mog hill, idek what store

okay this tag's a real boy now. ALSO TELEPATHY IS FINE

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CLOTHING STORE. Marty needs to change clothes.

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