:E

[fuckrobertfrost.livejournal.com]

Who: OPEN
What: an evening outing
Where: around Brock Marsh, possibly a little further abroad if desired - any setting is fine
When: the evening of his arrival
Notes: this will take place after he meets Kate, naturally, but that thread isn't finished yet so if something comes up, I will edit it in and note that!
Warnings: none


It's comforting to be ignored, as the people of Mog Hill are more or less used to newcomers staring at everything. Still, he doesn't like to play tourist, so John steals looks rather than gaze outright, keeping his head down and radiating a certain irritable unsociability. As he trudges along, glancing here and there, he probably looks a little disreputable — it's the whole slightly unshaven, more than slightly sullen thing. And maybe the furious chain smoking. Which is not really calming him, since he only has the one pack and it's running low already. With that in mind, he eyes what looks like a convenience store and then enters to peruse the cigarette options.

He's traveled quite widely for someone his age, so not seeing any familiar brands doesn't throw him, but it is still a little weird. Scowling at the rack, he hunches his shoulders and tries to collect himself. He needs a job. He needs to get the fuck out of that inn, and get familiar with the city.

He needs to go home, but if this shit happens often enough to have a fucking pamphlet for it, that's probably not happening. God knows he's not exactly indispensable to the Brotherhood, anyway. No one contacted him and that doesn't mean they're not here but it means he's on his own, which he hasn't been for a long time. Purposeless, too. Maybe he should go back to school, however the fuck that works here. He can't really imagine that.

Selecting a brand at random, he then lingers over the available selection of newspapers. Some of them remind him of tabloids, except they're not sensationalist — instead of LIZARDMAN EMERGES FROM FLORIDA SWAMP, EATS PET CAT, it's like LIZARDMAN OFFERING SUBSTANTIAL REWARD FOR RETURN OF LOST CAT. There's a thought. He could go cat hunting.

you load sixteen tons, and what do you get

[bangyoudead.livejournal.com]

Who: Remy & Tommy.
What: Awkwardness.
Where: House of TBA (it's like House of M, but with less horror!)
When: Presently.
Notes: Knowing is half the battle.
Warnings: None/TBD.

In between bouts of cheerful networking and the things he does under cover of (sometimes literal, sometimes metaphorical) darkness, Remy has a whole host of miscellaneous activities - some he's gotten used to living with Wanda out there in the nexus, others he's only ever had passing experience with. Things that can be skewed as 'domesticity' have always been elusive for him, or colored with a very unique shade. Yes, he's worked at a school - but he taught field combat, primarily, and when he subbed in phys ed they played neuron laser tag. He's rebuilt homes, mansions, redone plumbing, but only ever with the help of people who could move whole walls at a whim.

So it's weird, but in a nice way, to sit outside in the garden and smoke cigarettes and watch chicken slowly change color on the grill. Remy's always been mindful to only smoke outdoors, and the chicken was going to go bad soon, and it's warm enough out for it, and he's got a couple of beers, and... it's really, painfully mundane, and sometimes he wishes he could turn the nervous readiness that exists like a subtextual hum in the back of his head off. Sometimes he wonders if people do this sort of thing and no worry about, hell, Sentinels, at the same time. Must be interesting.