o1 🦅 I want to walk into the heart of you

[pridestar]

Characters: John Proudstar & CR
Summary: A series of reunions and confrontations, some of them sweet, and some of them a little more bitter than that. Catch-all for the month!
Date(s): May 2018
Warnings/Notes: Potential mention of trauma, battle, sexual themes, genocide, etc.



closed to kurt;

[Call him old-fashioned. He knows a great deal about technology, its uses for freedom, its uses to oppress it; the most cutting-edge inventions of the United States came out of the military, after all. Even were medicine was involved. Especially where cellular capabilities were in development. And now he's stuck in this -- extra, semi-parallel dimenison, where the universe itself is software? He's already been hunted by enough robot Sentinels to question reliance on anything that prides itself in being chips and wires.

So go figure. When Kurt sees the man, it's because he's nailing a poster up on a public corkboard. It reads:

DID THEY CALL YOU A MUTANT?

SEEKING OUR COMMUNITY WITHIN THE COMMUNITY IN XISTENTIA

John Proudstar @ Thunderbird
You could never tell from the business-like font and grave colors, that John had spent at least fifteen minutes waffling over whether or not to capitalize the -d. It seemed— a little vulgar, for his sensibilities. But he stands back now from his handiwork, hammer in hand, a hand on his hip. Pleased. Hopeful.]

closed to rosie;

Hi.

[He's been watching her work out. It isn't creepy. She pumps iron like no human can, and it's rare and interesting to him still— easy associations in his mind with special abilities that put a target on your back, marginalized people, the politics of his kind. Even if it isn't wise to generalize, he's never been a shy man, anyhow. His long legs cover the space easily. Narrow jeans, and a tanktop that shows off the cut of his tawny arms, the eagle-shaped tattoo marked into one bicep. He smiles at her.]

I'm John. How much are you lifting there? [He nods over at the weights she'd just set down, a few feet behind her. There has to be any number of men, who wish they could be the bench that she'd stretched her long, lean back over.]

closed to lorna;

[By now, she knows he's in town. He's a quiet presence at parties that are loud, a helpful voice on a network full of fearful and troubled people. He's been with Marcos— she might even know that, about the home they've made, bachelor-style, the stuff of some kind of adorable sitcom. It'd be an adorable sitcom, if the situation around them wasn't so fucking dire.

But he hasn't come to find her before now. No guesses as to how he realized it was her, despite that she has her green hair tucked under her cap. He's interrupting her lunch, one of the charming little cafes operated by someone who proudly holds their non-human ancestry public— some species called Kh'ferme, who have fur and slut-pupilled eyes, but are funnily vegetarian. They make the best eggs. John-- probably didn't come here because of the appetizing smell, either.]

How's it going, Lorna? [he asks, sitting in the seat opposite her.]

closed to sonya;

[She doesn't notice him coming in, mostly because her morning class has already grown to seven bodies, many of them eager for her expertise and tutelage. Besides, when you're off the ground and moving through ribbons suspended so many feet off the floor, what you're probably supposed to be paying attention to is not falling. Of course, looking at her, you'd never think it required any effort at all.

The students are dispersing by the time he steps up. Maybe she saw him at some point in the middle of the class, standing back by the windowed doors, watching. His expression hasn't changed the whole time. Reserved, as ever. Disciplined. Maybe careful.

Which is pretty funny, when his stride doesn't stop. He walks up right into her space. He looks for the shift of her eyes, the flicker of expression, that makes the decision for him: if he's allowed to put his arms around her. To kiss her on the mouth.]

closed to ignacio;

[Night-time darkness provides little in the way of a burden or an obstruction to John, who doesn't exactly have 20/20 vision, but nonetheless finds it easy enough to compensate with his hearing, the tracking that's practically psychic in its capacity to extend his understanding of the world beyond ordinary sensibilities. He's restless. He's been thinking-- this isn't his war, and he's also been thinking: that's a lie, of course; this is everyone's war. It's familiar to him, feeling at odds with the people around him, his memory, his principles. He is the descendant of an oppressed people, and yet, he'd gone into Iraq on behalf of the United States government and saw the hate on brown faces. He questions even the daemon that F.A.T.E.S. gave him— the symbolic eagle that's circling overhead.

The whole thing, it troubles him. He can't walk it off, but he knows himself well enough, now, to know that he needs to be in motion.]

Hello. [He sees the man's figure in the distance, where trees meet shore.] Don't mean to startle anyone. Name's John.

closed to thea;

[He finds her at the Citadel, one of those low-key community gatherings that the city's resident party-throwers like to put together now and then. He prefers them low-key. He's heard about the sex demons and he was right there at ground zero for the outdoor bazaar that led to the psychic bomb, and he figures smaller get-togethers with less windows are safer. Guerilla tactics, maybe. The life of an underground resistance fighter. Old habits die hard.

But he doesn't look tense as he steps up to her, a lopsided smile on his face.] Hey stranger, [he says.] I got you a little something that's been burning a hole in my pocket for you, a couple weeks now. Gonna assume you're keeping it sober, and this is going to be as good a time as any. You're looking good, Thea.

[His hand is empty when he reaches out to shake her hand. But it's a friendly gesture, in and of itself.]

closed to rafaello;

[he did this after the war, too. have these terrible dreams. wake up, and go outside to be by himself.

he had learned at some point, probably during out-processing in virginia, that this is pretty normal to go through if you've seen some shit. ptsd, they don't diagnose until you've been having the dreams and jumping in and out of your skin for a few months. he had understood, then, that he was lucky. he's been watching himself ever since he left panultima-- wondering if his luck was going to hold out. during the daytimes, it seems likely. coffee in the mornings, hunting, community services and rebuilding in the afternoons, dinner with marcos. nights like this, it's harder to say.

and he'd be lying if he didn't admit, the cut of rafa's silhouette emerging abruptly out in the trees made his heart jump for an instant. just like the arena. but unlike the arena, he can see the hair swept over the vampire's crown is smooth, his shirt clean of dirt and blood.] I remember you, [he hears himself say.] You move like a cat.

Comments

[pridestar]

[John lets his eyes focus past the vampire. He's able to pick out the house easily, even if 'night vision' isn't exactly what's written on his label. His label transcends real sense, if you ask him, but he's never been in a hurry to meet the scalpel that would probably best be able to tell him the mechanical details of what he can do.

It's a cute house. A beautiful sea. Some shit you'd find in Ikea, if you weren't living on rations in an over-crowded safehouse.]

No. I was going for a walk. Feeling out the perimeter of the new home. Only sixty miles in any direction, but it's still a much bigger perimeter than I'm used to covering. [He smiles at the vampire.] You? Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt you if you were on a way to a sleepover. [The sex positivity of this place is weird. But cool.]

[sadico]

A... what?

[ It took Ignacio a moment to figure out what John could possibly mean by that, then he chuckled with a shake of his head. ]

No, I was not going to that home. I am enjoying the view. You see, I am a painter and I take inspiration from certain views. The beach, a small home, the moon above the water, it would be a painting that tells a story.

You are new then? Welcome to the end of the world, John. Where are you from? America?

[pridestar]

[John's eyebrows shift slightly— it's been a long time since he thought about art, never mind spoken to someone with a propensity for it. He turns to look at what Ignacio describes, and it's different framed in an artist's perspective, his voice. It's beautiful. That's true enough. He wouldn't have thought to ring a story around it. He'd sooner think: tactics. The direction of the wind. The solace of nature only slightly marred by the imposition of man.]

I am new, [he confirms, looking back.] The way you describe it, I can see that. Yeah, I'm from North America. United States. I'm one of the native peoples.

John, [he abruptly remembers to say, offering Ignacio a hand to shake, suddenly thinking himself rude.] Good to meet you. How about yourself? You know about America. Not everyone does.

[sadico]

Yes, your accent told me as much.

[ He felt that he had an ear for such things. He reached out to grasp John's hand, his skin unnaturally cold- unless you considered something that felt dead and yet still talking to be natural. His grip was firm but not aggressive, polite. ]

I am from Spain. Madrid, to be precise, but I am very fond of Barcelona. You could say that my true home in the sea, as I love to sail the globe amongst her waves. Tell me, have you travelled much?

[pridestar]

[The temperature of the vampire's hand is profoundly strange, but John isn't one to judge a man by his physiological differences from your standard human. He has friends with laser fingers-- as Ignacio's about to find out, probably. He has friends with stone skin, green hair, pointed ears. Tails and Devilishly red eyes.

If anything, maybe he's a little biased toward the people who are strange to look at, to touch, to befriend. His smile warms a fractional few degrees when he releases Ignacio's fingers.]

Never to Barcelona, [he says.] But I've been told about the native accent. The 'th' in the middle of the word instead of Barcelona, as Americans say. [Bar-se-lona.] I've traveled within my home country and with the military on deployments to the Middle East, but that's it. Iraq, Afghanistan. Qatar for a little bit, too. It's odd, but this place is more like home than anywhere I ever went overseas. Especially how few people there are. The reservation was small, too. Was your community like this one?

[sadico]

[ Ignacio listened patiently as John spoke, his nod slight when there was mention of military deployment. Then he chuckled at the question and shook his head. ]

No. Perhaps I should clarify, I am the Vampire Lord of Spain. My community is vast, our numbers many and our influence spans the world. Or at least, it did. No longer. Now we are here, the last line of defense as it were. It is a harrowing thought, yes?