Maverick | Bitch Ricky Marten-Taylor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deuteranope) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
daybreakacademy2019-02-20 09:07 pm
deuteranope) wrote in daybreakacademy2019-02-20 09:07 pm
and we could run away. [open]
WHO: Maverick Taylor and OPEN (mostly/semi).
WHAT: Maverick’s nightmares rear their ugly heads again. Time for late night stress relief.
WHEN: Night of February 20th (into the 21st) “officially”, but time is fake and nightmares happened on more than one night, so chase your bliss.
WHERE: Lumi3/outside and around.
NOTES: Smoking and swearing, as a Mav does.
( SKITTERING - closed to Imelda. )
[His feet are bare against the cold ice, and part of his brain tries to tell him that he should be slipping and splitting his head open, but there isn't time to argue because he needs to go, he needs to be faster, he needs --
crrrack.
He’s falling. The only one reaching out to him is the sharp-nailed, glowing creature he was running from in the first place...but arms still catch him. They're cold, probably from being so far beneath the ice in this dark pit, and dirty. He can't find where any of them stop being an arm, even as that one twitches with a crack and starts slithering over to him, crawling, nails scrabbling. He shouldn't open his mouth, but it's the only thing he can still move, as the cries for help rise up within him.
Maverick sits up with a yelp and an overwhelming feeling of nausea, like those fingers really had clawed their way down his throat and were stirring up his stomach, now. This room is -- weird. But it's his, still. Just the one at the academy. He’s here, and he'd yelled, but not for help, and he wasn't crying, and thank fucking god it had been years since he'd ever wet the bed from this shit. He doesn't know how much lower he can let himself sink. He runs his hand through his sleep-addled curls to try and stop it from shaking, but when that doesn't work immediately, he reaches for a pair of headphones coiled around the bedpost to clamp over his ears and -- ugh, fuck, where was his phone? He doesn't want to turn on the light… If anyone had woken up -- or was still fucking awake -- then he needed some kind of plausible deniability. Totally still fucking asleep…]
( SMOKESCREENS AND SNOWBALLS - open, around campus. )
[The fear had faded some, letting anger take its place. Adults weren't supposed to have nightmares, only little kids -- and yet there he was, eighteen years old, and waking up in the middle of the night scared out of his wits time and time again. All because of some fake bullshit his brain came up with! He needs...something real. And a goddamn smoke.
He’s already working on a second cigarette by the time he's settled into packing snow into something that is a maybe vaguely human-shaped lump? His movements are agitated and restless, punctuated now and again by a string of curses or a cloud of smoke intermingling with his breath, clear from the cold. He's gotta suck it up and build an army.
And then he's gotta take that army out with the metal bat resting on the ground beside him.]
( SORRY NOT SUBTLE - open, Lumiére 3 common area. )
[Now that he’s worked out all that anxious energy… Okay, no, he still can't fucking sleep. But at least he can come back inside and curl up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate. He’s swapped out his bat for his laptop, drooping eyes scanning the screen as he scrolls through various, brainless sites. Mav’s got music going, but with the low volume he's set it to, someone probably has to get pretty close to recognize one of many songs by The Cure. Soothing rock.
...there are literally a dozen packets of hot chocolate resting next to him. He probably has more than enough to share, during these lazy, godless hours.]
WHAT: Maverick’s nightmares rear their ugly heads again. Time for late night stress relief.
WHEN: Night of February 20th (into the 21st) “officially”, but time is fake and nightmares happened on more than one night, so chase your bliss.
WHERE: Lumi3/outside and around.
NOTES: Smoking and swearing, as a Mav does.
( SKITTERING - closed to Imelda. )
[His feet are bare against the cold ice, and part of his brain tries to tell him that he should be slipping and splitting his head open, but there isn't time to argue because he needs to go, he needs to be faster, he needs --
crrrack.
He’s falling. The only one reaching out to him is the sharp-nailed, glowing creature he was running from in the first place...but arms still catch him. They're cold, probably from being so far beneath the ice in this dark pit, and dirty. He can't find where any of them stop being an arm, even as that one twitches with a crack and starts slithering over to him, crawling, nails scrabbling. He shouldn't open his mouth, but it's the only thing he can still move, as the cries for help rise up within him.
Maverick sits up with a yelp and an overwhelming feeling of nausea, like those fingers really had clawed their way down his throat and were stirring up his stomach, now. This room is -- weird. But it's his, still. Just the one at the academy. He’s here, and he'd yelled, but not for help, and he wasn't crying, and thank fucking god it had been years since he'd ever wet the bed from this shit. He doesn't know how much lower he can let himself sink. He runs his hand through his sleep-addled curls to try and stop it from shaking, but when that doesn't work immediately, he reaches for a pair of headphones coiled around the bedpost to clamp over his ears and -- ugh, fuck, where was his phone? He doesn't want to turn on the light… If anyone had woken up -- or was still fucking awake -- then he needed some kind of plausible deniability. Totally still fucking asleep…]
( SMOKESCREENS AND SNOWBALLS - open, around campus. )
[The fear had faded some, letting anger take its place. Adults weren't supposed to have nightmares, only little kids -- and yet there he was, eighteen years old, and waking up in the middle of the night scared out of his wits time and time again. All because of some fake bullshit his brain came up with! He needs...something real. And a goddamn smoke.
He’s already working on a second cigarette by the time he's settled into packing snow into something that is a maybe vaguely human-shaped lump? His movements are agitated and restless, punctuated now and again by a string of curses or a cloud of smoke intermingling with his breath, clear from the cold. He's gotta suck it up and build an army.
And then he's gotta take that army out with the metal bat resting on the ground beside him.]
( SORRY NOT SUBTLE - open, Lumiére 3 common area. )
[Now that he’s worked out all that anxious energy… Okay, no, he still can't fucking sleep. But at least he can come back inside and curl up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate. He’s swapped out his bat for his laptop, drooping eyes scanning the screen as he scrolls through various, brainless sites. Mav’s got music going, but with the low volume he's set it to, someone probably has to get pretty close to recognize one of many songs by The Cure. Soothing rock.
...there are literally a dozen packets of hot chocolate resting next to him. He probably has more than enough to share, during these lazy, godless hours.]
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If that's why he wants to wreck things, anyways.] So you're not just going to blow it up with some sort of fireball spell?
[Would that even...work...]
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[He takes a break to jab a thumb over to his abandoned bat over by the other partially-done creation.]
That thing's been way more fucking reliable for me than magic ever could.
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[Is she pouting? She's definitely pouting.
Her eyes follow his thumb, and she considers the bat for a moment.]
Well, wouldn't expect anything less.
[Get it? Woodn't?]
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I don't fucking know. I haven't been here all that long. There's some chick around that does cool magic tattoos... I dunno. Like the real ones more, but might start there.
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She’s trying her best but nobody said she was clever.]
Oh. I guess longer than me still doesn’t have to be that long. [She’s only been here a few days.] Do you think magic tattoos would hurt less? Seems like they would, right?
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[Not that he's been doing a good job of keeping an eye out, lately. Too complacent... Maybe the nightmare was a reminder to get his shit together.]
Depends what they do, maybe. If they're like temporaries, then fucking obviously. It's not like all tattoos are fucking terrible, though -- uh, you got any?
[He doesn't want to go through explaining it if this chick is just going to turn around and show him a detailed sleeve, or something. He feels inferior enough.]
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[So maybe it's a little bit of column a, a little bit of column b.]
No, I don't have any at all! Always thought they looked cool, but, well. Was always too young or too broke or too [at this she waves a hand] to get one.
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[He likes talking about Ricktoria, but he's confident about tattoos.]
Guess you could try to learn tattoo magic, too. Stop being so chicken.
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I don't know, I wouldn't even know where to go to find someone to do magic tattoos. Or if I could handle going alone.
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[He rolls back on his ankles, looking the snowman up and down.]
Dunno fuckall about the guards themselves, but spanner's good for ink talk, at least. Yeah, this thing still ended up pretty shitty, but it's your first, right? That's not so bad.
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[Is that a nickname...Why spanner...
What even is a spanner.]
It looks awful, but thanks. At least it's not going to be around for very long, huh? And then we can try again.
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[Spanner was better. A tool real good for stuff, and she fixed all kinds of weird shit.]
No shit it's awful, but we're still on the first pancake rule. [Or the hundredth pancake rule, if you were Maverick and couldn't cook at all.] Yeah, maybe. Practice makes perfect! And more targets.
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[She files that away, just in case she ever meets her.]
I didn't know pancake rules applied to things that weren't pancakes. [Huff.] And the more the merrier when it comes to targets, huh?
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[shrug!!! As long as it’s someone else’s shortcomings, it’s easier to deal with, and he can pass it off as a first pancake.]
Might as well be worth the time of coming out here, right?
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[You're a good kid, Maverick. Maybe she's jumping to conclusions, but...
She likes him. He's a little rough around the edges, but he's nice.]
Well I'm not going to be getting sleep any time soon, so I guess I can stick around and make a few more.
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That’s your prerogative, sis, but I don’t fucking mind. [...Oh. Um...] I’m Maverick, by the way. Over in Lumière.
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There's worse ways to spend my time. [She raises an eyebrow at him, before her expression softens into a smile.] Adelaide; I'm in Aube.
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Ricktoria's in Aube most of the time. If you look for the room that smells like a fucking Diptyque, there's a good chance you'll find her.
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I'll keep an eye out for her. Does she like treats?
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[of course she likes treats???? actually, what living creature of any type doesn't like treats...Mav likes treats. as long as they're not sweet. that's the point of treats.]
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[When your diet is changed you stop liking treats so much! Let her live!]
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You still got a brain, don't you? A treat's a treat. Cat's are just self-important bastards that know they deserve more treats than fucking anyone else.
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Maybe it got scrambled by all the magic. [But it's said with a laugh. Adelaide isn't afraid to make fun of herself.] Well if I see Ricktoria I'll make sure to give her all the treats she deserves.
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Tch. I'm pretty sure that's a fucking impossibility. Too good a girl, that Ricktoria.
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