Logs:Tempest-of-the-Mind: L'Entente's Dreaming
| Tempest-of-the-Mind: L'Entente's Dreaming | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-12-21 "I'm The Drug." |
| Location
<NYC> La Lyre d'Or, Le Bonne Entente - Astoria, Queens / <NYC> Lunar Suite - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria - Queens | |
Occupying part of what had been the old cathedral's crypt, this bar and lounge is sumptuous in black and gold, a perfect complement to the club next door. The walls are decorated with a wide variety of beautifully crafted musical instruments from around the world, and rumor has it they are all as functional as the gleaming black grand piano to one side of the stage. The bar itself is a long curve of polished black marble veined with gold, softly lit from below, and the stools surpassingly comfortable. In addition to the round tables arrayed around the stage in the center of the space, there are cozy upholstered booths a half-level up and pairs of armchairs tucked into intimate nooks here and there. On most nights there is live music here in a wide range of genres and styles, and for more crowded shows of a certain caliber, the tables can be cleared away for more space. It's a bustling solstice -- over in the Very Fancy restaurant there's a Very Fancy party happening, Sun and Stars to celebrate not just the solstice but the awarding of the restaurant's first Michelin Star. Ryan has quite clearly been at the party till just recently -- he's still dressed from the lavish event and coming into the bar already quite tipsy off the many hundreds of dollars dropped on Very Fancy champagne over and above the -- well, we won't even mention how much his family's meal cost. But the night is -- alright, it's not young, but at this time of year it's got plenty of dark in it yet. So here is one rock star, more flamboyant even than usual in a black Prince Charlie jacket and vest with star-shaped cutouts that show off the cloth of gold dress shirt underneath, a black kilt with cloth of gold panels on the inside of each pleat, and tall black boots, the outfit decorated with gold hardware throughout with a subtle emphasis on chain motifs. The wheels of his black anodized hybrid chair are large golden suns, and there is a fan-shaped ornamentation at the top of its backrest that looks like a halo of solar rays shining from behind his head. Probably most guests are not generally encouraged to simply commandeer the piano but Ryan Black has done so, scooting the piano bench out of the way so that he can play it himself -- he's just finishing up a rich rendition of "Sinnerman", each note played and sung spilling an infectious and intense warmth out into the lounge and all its patrons. As he finishes up the song he is turning the piano back over to the actual entertainment for tonight, a sultry jazz singer and her backup, and he's making his way back to one of the tables -- a server is bringing a drink to his table, something bright and fruity, even as he's rolling up to tuck himself in there. Steve had also been at the party, and departing from it later, fetched up at the bar sometime during Ryan's set. He's wearing a black suit with a gold sheen, a white poplin shirt, and a silver tie patterned in tessellated stars. His shield, normally starred already, has been repainted wholesale as a bright golden sun against a jet black ground. He applauds loudly when Ryan finishes playing and just as loudly when the other musicians take his place. He downs the rest of his whiskey and requests another with only a nod and a smile to the bartender who already well knows his tastes. When the lowball glass is filled again, Steve takes it with him over to Ryan's table. "Hey." A slight and slightly awkward pause. "Mind if I join you?" Kadar was not at this party, though probably he ogled its finery in passing once his shift was over today. He is not in any finery at all, though in neat black button-down and black slacks he still looks a sight more presentable than he did last month before he worked here. He's been down at the other end of bar with a couple other hotel employees -- breaking into a boisterous cheerful applause when Ryan's song is through. He's sliding down off his stool, weaving through the room with an unnecessary kind of dodge-and-spin around some of the chairs, though there is in fact plenty of room to maneuver. He does not pause when he reaches Ryan's table, his, "Hey-y-y-y," as warm and familiar as though he and Ryan were old friends. His finger snaps -- he's pointing between the other two men, his already cheerful expression lighting up further: "Oh, damn, tell me you two are getting back together?" Cyan is having a good day. Their hotel room, while apparently one of the smaller here, is swank as fuck. He’s slept better than in ages, had some quality bathtub soaking time, and even had a reasonable good day at his job. So, maybe he’s a little too giddy, maybe he doesn’t entirely fit in at this very fancy bar, but who cares, it’s a good day. His regular clothes are currently being cleaned, leaving him with a large, entirely too hot, festive white and red sweater (a part of his polar bear outfit), his most polite cargo pants, definitely-not-a-serial-killer boots, and a single facemask covered by a very sequined bright green scarf that also helps cover his neck and shoulders. After he figured out he could put things on the room, he’s been exploring, looking into exactly what they will let him get away with. So far, no one has kicked him out, which is always a plus, no one has called security, and the staff isn’t even giving him dirty looks as he orders yet another strawberry milkshake. And so he can’t help himself from engaging in one of his favorite hobbies. Eavesdropping. He doesn’t know who these people are, he has a feeling he should, they seem very fancy and definitely look familiar, so he assumes they are famous of some sort, but he has been living under a rock for a long time, and faces are oh so difficult. As he’s already invested in whatever they have going on, when the third person, whom he mentally labels as Awkward Hottie joins them, he can’t stop himself from exclaiming “They are!!?” not really noticing himself that he just said that out loud. "Steve." Ryan's smile is bright and easy -- if there's awkwardness, he's just about ready to roll right past it. There's warmth in his voice -- not just in its tone but in the faint flutter of empathy it brings with. He's gesturing to an empty seat. "You look fantastic, did you --" It's here, though that his eyes have gone slightly wider. He's blinking at Kadar, his easy smile frozen in place. "Uh -- we -- I don't --" Where before there was warmth now that same empathic aura is radiating a faint confusion and, yes, an awkwardness -- he doggedly shoves these aside, though with the amount of alcohol he's already ingested, he's overcorrecting -- there's a fiercer flush of feeling now, intense and thrilling, that washes through those around him before pulling back into a pulse of slightly buzzy-tipsy ease. "Wayminit I know you! Shit, Mendeleev? You back in town --" He's glancing towards the other interloper and perhaps this small click of recognition has put him in a more easygoing mood for Awkward Commentary On His Love Life because instead of deflecting he's just taking a gulp of his drink. Grinning a little brighter -- "I'unno, a few more drinks and ask us again." Steve had seemed -- and felt -- pretty casual and self-assured about all this before Kadar's question. Now he's flushing beet red and probably keeping himself from stammering only by sheer force of will. Ryan's recognition might well have saved him from successfully uttering anything embarrassing, and though his blush hasn't actually subsided he has retrieved something resembling poise. "Think I've got some catching up to do, then." He's still embarrassed but at peace with it now, raising his glass and sinking into a seat. "Good thing the night's extra long, then! You have me at a disadvantage," he adds to Kadar, bright and good-natured, "but any friend of his is a friend of mine." "Mendeleev," Kadar is enthusiastically agreeing -- he throws an arm out as if to symbolically encompass both Steve and Cyan in his boisterous good cheer about this identification. "This man," he's telling them, "pulled me straight out of a hell lab years ago. Gone on to fame and fortune, can't believe he still remembers my sorry ass. Shit --" He's plopping himself down fully uninvited at Ryan's table waggling a hand towards the wheelchair, "and you fighting those assholes right up till the end. Bad rap, man, bad rap. He's a keeper," he's telling this to Steve with all the earnestness as though, somehow, the experience of meeting Ryan for one brief fateful raid day all those years ago gives him some especial insight that Steve, from his sadder position of only having been friends with the man for years and dated him, could not possibly know. He's lifting his eyes to try and catch the gaze of a bartender -- obviously this dubious reunion calls for More Drinks -- and in doing so, glances to Cyan -- "Yo that scarf is amazing," is followed by a gesture towards Ryan and the oddly-almost-proud declaration (as if this information has not been all over the news): "-- you know this man is not just a killer musician he's a goddamn hero. National fucking treasure." “I know right!” Cyan’s eyes gleam, betraying a wide grin underneath the layers of cloth covering the lower parts of his face. “It’s so cool, I got it from an elf!” He swings over to their table, bringing his milkshake along and joining them as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He feels oddly good, the constant background noise of panic and sadness covered under a fuzzy blanket of giddiness and an unfamiliar warmth. “I was a lab rat for a while, zero out of ten experience, would not recommend.” Carefully he lifts the scarf up, pushes the milkshake straw behind his facemask, and takes a long slurp as he takes a moment to get his brain working, trying his hardest to figure out why all this information sounds so very familiar. "I remember everyone we pulled put of those places. You had siblings at Blackburn, right? How's your fam been?" Ryan is taking this lavish praise in stride, really, leaning back at just such an angle in his chair as to use the sunburst that halos him to its best and most radiant effect. There is a touch of something -- a little giddier, a little exhilarated -- edging into the easy warmth he's been spilling. "Damn, you too?" His chin lifts to Cyan. "Shittiest club to be a part of, I'm sorry, friend. Where'd you come out of?" He waggles his glass vaguely at the others in turn for a lazy sort of introduction, "Steve, this is -- fuck, Kadil, Kamar, got some Viking-ass name don't you. And -- I'm sorry," he sounds genuinely apologetic when he gestures to Cyan, "have we met? Shit got so much more chaotic after Lassiter." "He sure is," Steve agrees, his easy glibness belying the clashing but not at all contradictory streams of affection and grief and pride and wrath. Ryan's mood is always contagious, but for whatever reason Steve seems especially susceptible tonight, his good cheer growing vibrant and sharp. His smile widens with a sort of fierceness as he raises his glass to the two strangers. "A toast to your liberty, gentlemen! Next round's on me." "You too, damn, pull up a chair, friend-of-elves." Was this Kadar's table to invite people to, might as well be, because he is kicking a chair out for Cyan as they arrive. "Magnússon! Yeah!" He sounds, feels, psyched that Ryan even slantways remembered this trivium. "If you're in doubt just holler anything in the world of K's, one of us'll come running." The enthusiasm in his own voice -- glib, eager -- is oddly undimmed by the wash of (fierce) (proud) grief that accompanies his next statement: "Four sibs in the labs. Khalil died. Just this fall. Took a whole raft of Nazis down with him, though, make our mamma goddamn proud. -- Do you see this?" He is going from this breezy retelling of death and slaughter to a bemused half-flailing gesture towards the sunburst on Ryan's chair -- he's looking to Steve and Cyan as if seeking some kind of confirmation. "This wild-ass shit, this is why he's the star." He is lifting his glass amiably in answer to Steve. "Damn, when I tell my sibs Captain-goddamn-America bought me a -- this whole thing," his finger waves in a loop to encompass the motley party at their table, "feels like the setup to a great joke." “Verela, you know, the creep show,” there’s a flood of emotions, pain, fear, guilt, all washing over him, threatening to sweep him away, then just as suddenly they are gone, pushed down deep, “‘til I got too old and then I was somewhere else.” It’s starting to dawn on him who these people are. That’s Ryan Black sitting there, like a real ass person. Which means the other guy, the guy who’s brought a fucking shield to a party is- the thought is interrupted just as Kadar says Captain-goddamn-America. There’s a long drawn out slurp as Cyan finishes the last of his milkshake, being careful to put the mask back where it belongs. “ ‘m Cyan.” he mumbles, trying to figure out exactly how he got into this, feeling that warm feeling sneak in again, muffling the screaming in the back of his head, but not entirely replacing the mental cold shower just yet.
"Ho-o-o-ly shit," there's a sort of hushed and awed horror here, in Ryan's voice, in the widening of his eyes, in the brief uncomfortable flutter that jars, for a moment, through his buzzy-warm radiance before subsiding back into just tipsy-relaxed. "Varela, damn, here's to you for surviving." He lifts his fruity drink, too, in salute. His eyes have hitched just a moment long on Cyan's unusually dark eyes. There's a faint wisp of grief there briefly when he speaks, but it, too, sinks back down into the generally relaxed tide. "-- Do what makes you comfortable," he's gesturing to Cyan's mask with his cup, "but if you're worried just know that people will not be giving you shit here -- or like, if they do, security'll come down hard on them, not you. Owner takes the comfort of his guests pretty serious. Even all us weirdos." His eyes have skated back to Kadar, brows hiked. "I'm so sorry, man. Sounds like he went down a damn hero, though." "Good man!" Steve sits up straighter. "My condolences to you, and my compliments to your brother!" There's grief of his own in these words, and fierce admiration, too. "It's my honor to meet you both. I'm only sorry I couldn't have met Khalil, too." Then he adds, not exactly confidentally to Kadar given he hasn't lowered his voice far enough to stop anyone else at the table hearing, "If you want to work a punchline into how you tell your siblings about tonight, I'll do my best to back you up." His glance bounces between Cyan and Ryan, and it seems to take him a moment to work out what the reassurance is referring to. "If anyone gives you shit, I'll come down hard on them." This is flush with bravado that doesn't exactly fade in the next breath, though he is clearly trying to temper it with, "Though like he says, I won't need to. Reckon Luci wouldn't be too pleased about my starting fights in his bar, but I'm sure he'd understand." "You woulda loved him, he was like --" Kadar is lifting his hands, miming -- actually, it looks like a cross between kind of strangling and kind of shaking someone. Is this complimentary? Evidently it's meant to be because he is doing it with a ferocious enthusiasm. "The best of us. -- Shit, someone starts shit with you," he's adding with a laugh to Cyan, "I wouldn't be surprised if that fuck," like the strangling motion, this epithet for the hotel's owner is said with a decisive sense of approval, "came down on them himself, only looks prissy as fuck I think there's steel under that silk. You really come out Varela? Thought that place was like, a fucking, lab urban legend." “Oh this isn’t for me,” Cyan gestures at the mask. The scenario feels utterly absurd, the logical parts of his brain screaming at him to run away, but the emotional part telling him very calmly that there’s nothing here to worry about. It feels safe, safer than anywhere they’ve been in a very long time. And the outpouring of support makes that warm feeling inside even warmer. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, someone starts shit with me it’s themselves they’re hurting.” the wrinkles around his eyes hint at a soft smile.. “Ideally they figure it out before they beat me up, but one way or another once someone gets this stuff-” He pulls one of his gloves off and holds up his hand for them all to see. Tiny streaks of blue-green run down his fingers before fading into nothing, like a rapidly moving aurora, “-on them, they tend to end up on a journey they’re not prepared for.” Is he really sitting here talking to Captain America about drugs? He shudders as Verela is mentioned again, but this time he’s prepared for the emotional yanking. “I wish Verela was an urban legend, place was...” he shakes his head, “...everything they tell you and then some, horror movie shit.” They don’t need to know that a lot of it was because he was there. "Figure out -- what?" Ryan has definitely not figured it out -- he's leaning closer, squinting in uncertain curiosity at the streaks of color on Cyan's hand. "S'that dangerous? He's tough," he's saying this about Steve, drink sloshing just a little down over his fingers this time as he waves his hand in Captain America's direction, "he can handle all kinds of dangerousness. We are not doing any beat-upping though. That is not so much an activity for this kind of bar." "Steel isn't half so strong," Steve says kind of off-handedly, but even without Ryan's insight it's pretty apparent he's saying this in support of Kadar's thesis and not in critique of it. He frowns at Cyan's hand, and looks just about to ask a question of his own, but then just kind of tips his head at Ryan's instead. "I'm not afraid, for what it's worth, but he's right. I don't think anyone'll need to beat anyone up." Though even as he says this, his hand drops to rest on the edge of his sunny shield like he's reminding himself where it is. There's a steady, abiding anger in his voice. "I'm not familiar with the legend, but it doesn't sound like you're keen to tell it, anyway. Whatever it was like, a thousand hells aren't enough for the folks who put you there." "Juvie Prometheus," is all Kadar is saying, with a grimace that still does not actually match the depths of disgusted fury briefly spiking through his otherwise amiable mood. He's not getting any deeper into the legends of the nightmare that was not his own, though, just hailing a server so that they can put in another order of drinks all round (on him, he is very clearly indicating Steve while he orders his vodka Collins). He's sort of antsily bobbing one leg in his seat while the server takes the rest of the table's orders and has barely allowed them enough time to do so when he's blurting: "-- wait are you talking about poisoning Captain America?" A kind of intrigued excitement has sparked bright and hopeful in his mind. “It’s not dangerous per say, at least as long as it’s not more than this.” Cyan stares at his own fingers. “And if he-” he nods at Steve “-starts messing with me, I assume I’ve deserved it. It’s just...” he tries to find the right way to explain it. “Not poison exactly-” he directs this at Kadar, “-it’ll just make you feel very distinctly that there are more important things to worry about.” He waves his fingers around dramatically, “You know, like, a very...interesting...trip?” "Oh," there's a sudden realization washing through Ryan and by extension those at his table -- it's followed almost immediately by an amused delight: "You mean drugs. Are you drugs? Hell yeah." He's leaning in to give Cyan a high-five. "Sometimes I'm drugs, too. And some days we could all use feeling like there's more important shit to worry about, right?" "Juvie." Fury, disgust, and sorrow. Steve's eyes skip aside to Ryan, then lower. He recollects himself when the server comes, asks for another Connacht single malt -- he doesn't specify the volume, doesn't need to -- and for the round to be added to his tab. "Nobody's judgment is perfect. Sure I've picked a few fights that didn't need picking." He tosses back the rest of his drink and waggles the empty glass. "Damn near impossible to poison me, though. God knows I've tried!" There's a kind of self-deprecation in the lopsided smile here. "Him, though..." He jerks his thumb at Ryan. "He's a different story." "Shit, you're drugs." Ryan's delight is quite literally contagious, yes, but probably Kadar would have lit up at this all by himself. Even while he's leaning over like, "-- what kind of drugs, do you share," he's also brazenly hitching a thumb in Ryan's direction: "That dude is rich as hell you should charge him for the drugs. Wayminit, if you can't do poison can you not do drugs?" He's abruptly turned -- looking at Steve's glass and then at Steve with a strong swell of pity. "Fucking sucks, bro." “Oh I'm not just a drug.” Cyan’s eyes sparkle with mischief and a sense of giddy delight as he brings his hand up to meet Ryan’s, all thoughts of consequences banished to the Shadow Realm, “I’m The Drug.” "He's so right, I can totally --" Almost assuredly Ryan was about to offer to pay Cyan the Person for Cyan the Drug, but instead, as he looks at the hand that just touched Cyan's, that same sense of mischief and delight is spreading strongly. It's joined, too, by a vague and vaguely dissociated euphoria, flushing warm through his company. "Damn," he says, and then with a laugh that is far more complacent than maybe it ought to be, "if you're The Drug and I'm some drug shit's about to get a little muddy. Please tell me none of you have early mornings." "'Can't' is a strong word, but yeah." Steve chuckles ruefully. "There are...edge cases. And he's --" Steve looks at Ryan, starts to become alarmed just a little too late. "He's drugs," comes at a significant delay. And then, much more readily, "I can go to afternoon mass. Ryan and Cyan rhyme." This last revelation carries a sense of transcendent unreality, though pleasure, too. "Oh, boy. I should have asked for water." "Wait, is that you --" Kadar is pointing, wide-eyed, to Ryan, then swiveling as if his chair is on a lazy Susan to transfer his pointing to Cyan without really moving the fixed position of his arm. "Is that you, is that --" Now his pointing has landed on Steve, which is enough to make him drop his hand back to his lap: "Nah not you you're -- combo-breaking." He himself can not be faulted for Not Contributing to this, though. He's drooping down in his seat, and when he rubs his fingers against the side of his head it somewhat distressingly looks for a moment like they've mooshed straight into his skull, digging in there as if his temple is clay and he can reach in to pull the Sudden Wibbliness out. Maybe this is part of the drugs too, though, because his head looks Just Fine when he's dropped his other hand as well. "Hey I work here, if it's a long night I'm right where I need to be in the morning." "I work..evenings..." Cyan stares at his hand, trying hard to make it stop shining. "Ohh...oh wow..." It's not usually like this, sure there's an effect on him as well but it's usually weak, nothing like this. "You weren't kidding, you're like an echo!" He points at Ryan. Then giggles, a tingling little laugh that doesn't quite fit with the way he looks. "First dose is a freebie, any more's gonna cost ya." --- <NYC> Lunar Suite - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria - Queens This luxurious suite spans the fourth and fifth floors at the tip of the building's north wing. Silver-veined black marble columns, arches, counters, and accents make a striking backdrop for the plush red velvet furnishings and chrome appliances. The first floor has a partially open floor plan that favors half-walls and glass where divisions are necessary. The entryway opens onto the expansive living room which meanders in one direction into the chef's kitchen and the dining room in another, rejoining beyond these in a solarium spanning both floors. On one side, a spiral stair winds up around a cylindrical glass elevator, and on the other side is a lush greenhouse with a waterfall that cascades down from the second floor. Beyond the double glass doors, a garden terrace affords an unobstructed view of the park, the river, and the Manhattan skyline beyond framed by the bridges. The second level is more conventionally laid out, beyond the glass balcony of the solarium. The sumptuous master suite offers a range of comfortable multi-purpose furniture besides the massive bed, and adjoins a rambling spa bathroom with an immense soaking tub, a claw-foot tub in its own vine-wreathed nook, a huge rainwater shower, and both dry and wet saunas. There is also an office with state-of-the-art video conferencing hardware, a reading room that could almost qualify as a library, and an entire second bedroom suite. It's fairly early, still, Sunday morning, when the door lock beeps quietly open -- who knows where Jax has been tonight but it was not here. He's peeling off his wintry layers, crouching to shuck his boots by the door. It's when he goes to line his boots up in the normally neatly arranged shoe rack that he seems to first notice something is amiss, frowning at the floor and tilting his head as if listening to something he cannot really hear. His brow is a little furrowed as he straightens and heads further inside. "Ryan? Sugar, are you -- oh. Oh, gosh." Did Jax leave a muscular bear strewn across his kitchen counter at any point yesterday? Honestly, probably around here it's not all that unheard of for his housemate to leave a bear or two littered around after a wild night, but this particular one is still in possession of his clothing, so already it's a bit astray from Ryan's usual flings. Also, the "bear" part is somewhat more literal -- paired with very rumpled black dress shirt and slacks, the tall figure is wearing a large mascot polar bear head with a Santa hat perched (festively!) awry atop it. Is this normal? Who is to say -- the person is kind of oozing off the counter as Jax enters, a muffled groan coming from within the polar bear head. He fumbles at his pockets, then gives up on this enterprise as the entire large head rolls to aim the eye holes towards the oven clock. "Oh, fuck," says the polar bear, and, staring right at Jax, "Holy shit I'm still so fucking -- oh fuck." And with that, he's fleeing top-speed towards the door. He at least has the presence of mind to grab a pair of shoes on the way out. Were they his shoes? Eh. Hopefully they'll fit Well Enough. On waking up Cyan immediately smacks his head in the table he’s been sleeping under. It’s by no means a bad place to sleep, the carpet is far softer than most beds he’s encountered the last few years, but it is very unexpected. Then he opens his eyes, only to immediately close them again. This isn't real, right? The room is fancy enough to please his mom, and while he does currently reside in a very swank hotel room, this is definitely not it. He groans as the rest of his body slowly comes online, the throbbing in his head reminding him that something did indeed happen last night, but what was it? He was in a bar...talking to...bit by bit the wheels in his head bring the memories back one-by-one. “Oh fuck...” he starts, trying to sit up only to once again smack his head into the table above him. “No, no, no, no...” none of his thoughts are internal right now, all of them falling out his mouth like marbles from a bag made of fishing nets. “There was a hot dude, and then Ryan Black and... “the last memory finally slots into place, "Mister America!" he exclaims very loudly, just as he realizes that he now can see from a third angle, his palm blinking at him as he lifts his hand to look at it. Or maybe look at himself? “Oh that’s weird...” He rolls out from under the table, scrambling to his feet, stumbling on the carpet and stubbing his toe on a table leg that definitely comes out of nowhere. Where’s his masks? Where’s his shoes!? Did he dance? In public!!? Half-jumping he makes his way to the door, mumbling incomprehensible apologies to no one in particular, not really sure who is around, but electing to bow profusely at Jax, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, oh god, oh god, oh god” Then he’s out, out and running, hoping that at least some of his scrambled memories will turn out to just have been a dream. There's a muffled noise coming from upstairs, bringing with it faint wisps of echoed amusement and bemusement and -- no, okay, that last is just horror, sharp and panicky. "Ja-a-a-x some fucker stole my legs," is probably actually not all that unusual a greeting in these parts, even/especially in Ryan's kind of sleepily petulant tone. It's followed very reassuringly a moment later by "-- s'cool found 'em -- are you --" After this there's a THUMP. And then more thump. A yelp and a yowl and Sprite is darting rapid down the stairs, the little black cat fleeing Whatever Is Happening up there for the relative safety of the living room, now. Ryan is appearing shortly after, quite entangled still in a mess of bedsheets -- unlike his Downstairs Guests he has very much lost his clothing, except for the black vest he'd been wearing to the party the night before. He's dragging himself and his Tangle Of Sheets toward the balcony so he can attempt to hoist himself up along the railing and peer down at Jax. "Yo is there a ohhhhhh god." He has, surprisingly enough, been standing with only minimal support from the railing, but as the bedsheets slip downward he is toppling backwards as if in sheer horror at himself. Not because he's never seen himself naked before, but because the Legs he apparently recently found were not, evidently, his factory-issued pair -- there's a second pair of legs branched off at an angle almost exactly unlike some kind of freakish double-human centaur. They do not look like they should entirely work at this awkward angle but they do, at least enough that when he attempts to run away from himself it does produce Some Motion, and he topples backwards with startled laugh. "...The Drug." There's yet another (loud) thump upstairs, after both Sprite and Ryan have vacated the master bedroom, and a moment later Mister America spills out onto the balcony. At some later point -- hopefully not very much later -- someone will find Steve's clothes where they've for some reason been carefully folded and stacked on the dining table. But for the moment he's gloriously naked save for the sun-emblazoned shield with which he is trying to preserve what's left of his modesty. What's -- admittedly little -- left of his modesty is quickly forgotten in favor of catching Ryan when he topples backwards. The shield drops to the floor and rolls down the spiral stairs, the noise of each bounce weirdly flat, then across the living room. It wobbles as it spends its momentum just before reaching Jax, but does not fall flat, rolling instead around and around quietly on its edge like a coin spinning down. Steve had probably meant to just scoop Ryan up, but clearly wasn't accounting for two whole extra legs or his ex looking up at them from where his shield is still rattling quietly to a stop. Now he's flushing pink from the tips of his ears all the way down to -- Steve had managed to not freak out in the process of rescuing Ryan from his supernumerary limbs, but as he props his friend back up against the railing he's frowning. And looking down at his own supernumerary appendage situation. And blurting out an incredulous-horrified-panicked "oh fuck!" | |
