someone's mouth said, "paint them all red"

[caballero]

Who: Bruce Wayne "Tom" and you?
What: Some new stuff and some old stuff; there are a couple of thread starters but otherwise it's totally open.
Where: Various places - default starter is Bonetown, but if you'd like to bump into Kermit elsewhere, ping me to wrangle an idea, the world is our oyster.
Notes: I want your CR and I want your revenge. Tho I apologize ahead of time - Bruce is not really proactive socially so if you want to hurl your character at him you might have to be the one to poke him with a stick. Also his permissions post has been updated, so if you haven't interacted with him before it's worth a read. I'M SORRY THIS CHARACTER IS SO DIFFICULT.
Warnings: TBA.

Bonetown, despite all political hardships and polarized status compared to other cantons - hell, much of the city - has managed to carry on relatively securely. Bruce appreciates the population of paranoid hermits, nonpowered nonEarthlings, and scientists and alchemists working to fail-safe their material, locked in a bubble free of interference. The salves and bandages he can pick up near his flat, made from all natural products originating from planets he's heard of and ones he hasn't, fill his medicine cabinet to overflowing; sometimes these old mothers look at him over the rims of their glasses and inspect the bruises on his hands with something like skeptical judgment, and he doesn't begrudge them that. He doesn't look like a hippie and never will, feelings deep in his heart aside.

Today's a mystery tea day. He can't pronounce what he got (yet), but the donut in the accompanying bag is laughably mundane (rainbow jimmies). The riverbank that overlooks the three-way split is good for the view, and also scoping out chaos at the arena across the way. He'll sit there for a while, then melt back into the crowds.

Comments

[obscuredvision]

At the appointed time, a woman walks into the coffee shop, pausing to give her eyes a moment to adjust to the slightly lower light inside, and to scan the seating area. She's dressed to the nines, but not expensively so; this is someone who puts care into her appearance rather than using it as some display of status or wealth. Chocolate brown pencil skirt, a flowy jacket a couple shades darker, and a hot pink shirt beneath. Made-up, not a hair out of place, and she'd be tiny if it weren't for those tall heels she walks confidently in.

Her face lights up as she spots the shadowbox on the table, and she strides over, offering a hand when she's within polite distance. "Hello. I'm Ava, and I believe that's my Heineken bottle, courtesy of the gods."

[caballero]

When it's clear he's been spotted, Bruce rises from his seat, polite, and shakes the extended hand when Ava's in range. "Hey," he greets, soft-spoken and with a fleeting half-smile. (He doesn't seem insincere, just like that.) "I'm Tom. I hope you found your way over easy enough- uh," slightly awkward, then, and he makes a slight gesture like she's free to sit, if she likes. "Can I buy you a coffee to apologize for taking so long?"

[obscuredvision]

Her smile warms a bit, in that kind, it's-all-right way some people have when presented with someone a bit uncomfortable or awkward. "You don't have to apologize for anything, Tom," she insists as she takes the offered seat, "but I would never turn down a cup of coffee or a bit of company." Deftly handled, neither assigning blame nor turning down a kind offer. She's gotten good at maneuvering around things that might offend a perfect stranger--it kind of comes with the must-tell-you-my-prophetic-vision territory, sometimes.

"I'm just glad to have this back, if this is what the gods have decided I needed to have. Thank you for posting it to the network."

[caballero]

Being himself, Bruce's first impulse is to hand the thing over and leave, but if he went through all the trouble to meet her, he might as well sit still for a bit. (And fuck knows he could use some human contact beyond the lunacy he surrounds himself with.)

He sits after she does, and she's free to ping the waitress for whatever she likes, of course. "No problem," he says. "I'm just glad someone recognized it. I would have never picked mine out without a nametag." Which is a lie, but normal people don't obsessively have their associates belongings committed to memory in photographic detail.

[obscuredvision]

She looks up from examining the shadowbox, still smiling. "I suppose if it had been something more commonplace I might not have recognized it. I don't suppose many other people's mothers had a broken beer bottle from a bar fight nicely framed for display for them."

It's a lie on her part, too--she has an excellent memory, able to recall facts and visions committed to it, and she likely would've recognized most anything of hers. But that's a weird sort of thing to admit to, especially with someone you've only just met.

She pauses to stop a passing waitress, to order a strong black coffee, before returning to the conversation. "Anyway, I'm very grateful to have it back, even if I don't understand why I have it in the first place."

[caballero]

"I think if my mother had one, she'd frame it too." A slight smile behind his tea, which he picks back up only when she orders. He's been drinking a ridiculous amount, lately, in a fit of what he refuses to acknowledge as homesickness. (He's only drinking English-style tea today because he's already tried all of the other options on the menu here, it has nothing to do with any absentee friends, so there.)

"Who understands why anything happens, here?" An implication of a shrug. "At least it's not a bill."

[obscuredvision]

"That's true," she replies, laughing. "Or embarrassing junior high pictures or something. At least this, I don't mind hanging on the wall. Anymore."

She sets the shadowbox to one side, focusing her attention back on him. "And now, it's time for The Question, the one we all get asked every time we meet someone new: How long have you been here?"