the_last_resort | 4th Wall Event

4th Wall Event

Who: Various
What: 4th Wall Event
When: M12 D3-D5 (on Mar 7 - 15)
Where: Around Blackway and Blackstaff
Notes & Warnings: Please attach any warnings necessary to thread subjects. This does count for game canon. All 4th wall threads go here, and information is available on OOC and news. The game's navigation is here.

Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, intersexed, androgynes, robots, energy beings, and life forms of all kinds. I am Jeffers, your servant, host, and resort AI.

Let me extend gratitude to you all on behalf of the entire community for agreeing to come and render service in the wake of our unfortunate incident with spontaneously frictionless surfaces. Your assistance in rebuilding is greatly valued.

Visitors, I encourage you to speak with the other Imports. Imports, I ask you to help our guests enjoy their stay.

Please consult with any terminal or one of my android drone avatars if you have any questions that cannot be answered by the residents. I most sincerely hope you find your time at Blackstaff a pleasant one.

For those of you who enjoy “fun” [Jeffers says as if he’s not sure that any of this really qualifies as fun in his book], Mr. Jellicles’ Emporium requires extensive repair. There are broken windows and bottles hither and thither, and do be careful of the broken glass; we wouldn’t want any further injuries. Broken arcade games must be fixed. Furniture repaired, or, if it is beyond hope, taken away. And small, colourful plastic balls are scattered asunder and must be gathered up to be relocated into a “fun cage,” but worse and far more deadly are the skiballs and bowling balls. I must insist no one drop one of those on one’s own or another’s foot

The local restaurants require new food to be brought in. Because of the quarantine, food shortage is somewhat of a danger, therefore any food will do, but I for one would especially appreciate champagne and truffles. In addition, new dishes must be unpacked, furniture repaired, and cooking areas cleaned. I expect the cooking areas to be able to pass the most rigorous of health inspections once the cleaning is finished. Not that we have a ministry of health and safety here, but it is the principle of the thing.

With the clinic having been overwhelmed by recent events, they are currently understaffed to handle the full scope of injuries. Assistance treating the wounded and the ill would be a very great help. Do note that only persons with appropriate physician or nursing qualifications will be able to assist patients with direct care. It would not be at all appropriate to have, for example, vehicle mechanics performing surgery. Unless perhaps the patient is a sentient robot car. Then the clinic will make an exception. Many other tasks are available for other volunteers who desire clinic duties, however. In particular, wounded patients may require assistance retrieving personal items, sending messages, or returning home. Furthermore, as always, the clinic would be grateful to receive donations of medicines from your homeworld

The loss of friction created an extensive mess around town and I so dislike messes. I would like it very much if knocked over displays were righted, broken glass cleared, and disabled vehicles removed from the streets. Let’s have a nice, tidy village, shall we? Furthermore, some residents misplaced pets during the hullaballoo and would very much like them found and returned. (Not to mention the havoc stray beasts are having on the songbird population.) Shelves in various shops must be restocked with new, unbroken merchandise, and many storefronts and signs are in need of general repair.

And with Jeffers announcement to the population, the town was opened up to anyone willing to help. Some of the citizens who had tended towards suspicion towards imports for some time (an as-of-yet unidentified one took part in sabotage against the town) have changed their views and are now extremely welcoming, offering whatever they can to in return for the help they're getting from the visiting imports.

While the guests are here, they have free rein of the village, and even visiting the wilderness if they have a permit. First they must be instructed on how to defend themselves against the planet's hostile species. A guide is still recommended, but with the busy schedule one is not absolutely essential.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Tuco's head rocked sideways, the edge of his jaw touching his shoulder. His eyes had narrowed a little like he was reevaluating—like he'd just now realized that there was more behind that crooked smile than in those that he himself would often deploy. Shifting his head back again, he hummed softly. Casually.

"That's half more than a lot of the bastards across town." He punctuated by reaching down to pick up a second bottle, this one somehow intact. He gave it a little wiggle, sloshing the yellow liquid inside. "There are two kinds of people in this world, my friend: those who think they found a bottle of something beautiful, and those who see a jar full of piss." He was grinning now. "Tell me: What do you see, Rojo?"

Edited 2015-03-09 20:59 (UTC)

Visscher glanced from the bottle, to Tuco, back to the bottle. "Honestly I hadn't considered whether the bottles were full of urine or not, I was picking them up regardless. But I will be cautious not to disrupt that one." He took it to put in the bag, carefully this time, and while he understood the metaphor he was now actually hoping none of these bottles had piss in them.

Tuco snorted. "Very wise," he said, tapping a finger against his temple. "But unless you about to drink it, piss or whiskey, it's all the same to you, no?"

And that seemed to signal the end of his extensive contribution to the cleanup, because he then began to rise again, wincing a little as he finished straightening up. "And speaking of you," he continued, nodding towards Visscher as if he had to clarify that he wasn't referring to some invisible third party, "You only here for the three days?"

"Whiskey doesn't do very much for me," he said, almost sadly. He missed when it did. Now, it felt almost as though he were cheating, except it always was exceptionally entertaining for someone with brash over-confidence to challenge him to a drinking contest and then he could watch them pass out drunk.

But he was a kind soul that would help treat their hangover later. For free, even.

"I'm not sure. I visited once before, but some accident returned me home. I found another short term job in the meantime. I would have to arrange to leave that if I were to stay here."

He hummed again, shoulders and brow rising in unison. "Okay, well, uh..." he held the note for a moment, like he didn't quite know how to follow up. "Stay or go, if you find you running out of bowling balls and piss bottles?" He jerked his thumb back, pressing it against his breastbone. "Ask after Tuco. I work as a guide. A place like this, you only seeing half a finger's worth if you stay cooped up in town."

He paused just long enough to let his arm flop down again, before giving Visscher a quick once over, adding, "And a little sun never hurt anybody."

"If I have a chance before they send me out, I would love to." He sounded genuinely pleased at the idea. And, if it was impossible to go, he would probably end up writing Tuco a letter of apology.

"Wait. Hold on. Since you're helping me..." He started to fish in his pockets, shuffling items around. Then he pulled out a card, one of his day's wages worth.

"I don't know if you're getting paid extra for helping out here but I would like to see that you do." Said a poor man that was desperate for a little kindness and put a little too much faith in people, as he handed over one of Jeffer's kind payments to his new friend.

Tuco didn't say anything—and he didn't do anything, either. He just stood there for a few silent seconds, eyes pinned to the card pressed into his palm.

"You, uh..." He trailed off and flattened his lips together, throat bobbing as he swallowed. With a flick of his fingers, he used his free hand to gesture between the card and himself. Frowned, then let that same hand wander up into the thick mess of his hair, eyes finally flitting up to meet Visscher's again.

"You're joking...?" he asked, mouth suddenly curving up like he was in on it, too—like (at last) he'd gone and solved the riddle.

He wasn't really surprised at the assessment. And he just gestured to his garbage bag.

"If I were only in this for money, I doubt I would be volunteering my services to this. I am a doctor, so..." And a little dismissive wave.

"Don't trouble yourself over it. I have enough to get by. That's all I need." He picked up a few more things.

He let out a sharp, shallow breath and shook his head, baffled. He couldn't understand the man's angle. If it was a trick, it was a trick that went over his head by a fair margin. His fingers had closed over the card, but his arm remained up, hovering awkwardly.

"I don't—" He faltered again, punctuating with another fleeting smile—a childish smile, and one that he'd have chastised himself for, were he aware of it. Especially given how it completely undermined the suspicious twist of his eyebrows. "Shit," he said bluntly. "I mean... you never even told me your name!"

"Utrecht Visscher." If there was anything about him that didn't already betray his heritage, the way he said his name sealed the deal. He was heavy on the "r", the last name said somewhere between "fisher" and "feesher". He was mild and kindly, and if he was pulling a con he was certainly good at pretending to be the nervous, pliant sort.

Some sounds were easier to memorize than others. Tuco pursed his lips for a moment, throat giving a barely audible creak as he stopped short of trying to repeat the name. Instead, he settled a warm: "It's very good to meet you, friend."

Whether or not he realized it, that was an honest sentiment for once. Stopping for a friendly conversation had been a semi-calculated move, sure, but the doctor's generosity had dragged him away from that. He found himself actually liking the guy.

Not that he had any intention of hanging around though. With a broad smile, he stepped back and tugged his collar out, stuffing the card deep inside his shirt. "If you running out of time, head to Pugsy's one evening instead, okay?" He pulled the shirt straight again and flapped a hand over his shoulder. "Downtown," he added. "Enough hard work, a man's throat starts to dry up."

Edited 2015-03-15 17:15 (UTC)

He almost blurted out that he couldn't get drunk, so it was useless for him to go. But he wasn't particularly good at being social and incredibly prone to craving friendship.

"I could do that. If you have a particular day, anyway?"

"Most days," he said, shrugging. "I mean, not a lot of exploradores want a guide after dark, so unless some other bullshit comes up..." He hesitated, then managed to look a little sheepish, like he was silently acknowledging how useless that was. "Okay, okay— tonight?" He nodded. "Sure. Tomorrow?" Another (smaller) tilt. "Yeah, probably."

"Just keep an eye out for a very handsome man sat at the bar." He flashed a toothy smile, before using his chin to gesture up to Visscher's hair, adding, "And if not, lucky for you, you're pretty easy to pick out, eh?"

At Pugsy's

As promised, a slightly built (but taller than Tuco) blond German showed up at the bar. The patronage wasn't foreign to him; rough and gruff types, people that he had encountered the like of when he worked aboard some of the stations he had, served during some disasters.

But that didn't mean they didn't make him nervous. For every thug with a heart of gold, there was a genuine asshole that just enjoyed being important and working his way up. In his opinion, life had provided him with half and half as far as temperament went, but that latter half was extremely dangerous when they put their mind to it.

Tuco seemed to be pleasant enough though (Ha... haha..... ha) and when he saw him he went over and perched primly on the chair beside of him.

As the seat was pulled out, Tuco grunted irritably and unhooked his foot from the chair leg, letting his boot heel thud against the floor. He glanced across then, face drawn into the not-quite-neutral expression of a man trying to gauge whether or not he should be glaring instead. He must have settled on not, because half a beat later he was grinning.

"Hey!" he cawed, reaching across to clap Visscher's arm. "Doctor Fish! You showed up, huh?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "...Who knew? I thought maybe you'd take one look at the, uh..." He stopped and waved back towards the entrance. Beamed with the blissful idiocy of the slightly drunk. "You want something to drink? Some, uh... some not-whiskey, right?" His eyes flicked over to the bottles behind the bar and he opened his mouth as if he were about to list every possible alternative.

"Visscher" he corrected, but not meanly. He just jostled with the clap and half hid his face to cover the friendly smile.

"I wouldn't want you to spend any extra money on me. I'll just take water for now." He didn't know that, in requesting just that, he was already attracting some attention.

Tuco turned to meet Visscher's eyes and waited, staring as if he expected the man to betray his mock-seriousness with a wry, playful look—that he had his real request lined up, hovering in the wings.

...When it became apparent that this wasn't the case, he laughed. Loudly.

"Water?" he repeated, shaking his head grimly. "Jesus." He scrubbed at his jaw for a second or two (ample time for that judgmental air to settle in) before flopping his hand across the bar, waggling his outstretched fingers. Having managed to get the bartender's attention, he first motioned to his own glass, ("Another!") and then to Visscher himself. "And a glass of your finest water!"

Edited 2015-03-17 01:49 (UTC)

"Blame it on my medical profession, and consider it an appreciation for the beverage for its medicinal effects alone." He said with a touch of amusement, raised his glass of water as he received it, and took a drink.

He got a laugh from some ruddy, salmon skinned alien at the end of the bar. But even if mockery could occasionally coax frowns out of Visscher, he wasn't rising to the bait just yet.

He let out an amused snort. "Yeah, yeah. Water's good, but whiskey?" He gestured down to his own glass, fanning his fingers out. "It makes you stronger, taller and better looking. Proven to help a bad man sleep better, and a poor man feel richer, eh?"

There was a soft clink as his rings met the glass, and having paused just long enough to take a sip, he continued: "You wake up with your head splitting? Curarse la cruda." A brief pause, and then he leaned right in, cheek inches from Visscher's shoulder. With his voice at a low, conspiratorial whisper, he added, "It draws a little less attention, too."

Edited 2015-03-18 02:07 (UTC)

"If there were an emergency, a good head would be best about me." He chuckled, but a snide comment from further down happened. Whatever language that was, it wasn't friendly, and wasn't meant to be heard but tone was unmistakable. The salmon hued man was mocking the both of them to his friend over his own whiskey.

It was one thing to chuckle at Visscher—a man who chose to stay sober in a hole like Pugsy's deserved a little chastising—but to keep it going, dragging Tuco into it, too? His smile was gone, expression locked right down. He took another sip of his whiskey, then swiped at his nose with the back of his hand—a gesture that wasn't so much through necessity as it was a nervous tic.

"Hey," he said loudly, shifting his eyes from the mocker back to the mocked. "You think Pinky over there's okay?" He drew his face into an exaggerated parody of concern, and turned to point. "I mean, I don't know... he looks a lot like he's choking." A beat. "He doesn't sound too good, either."

Edited 2015-03-19 00:38 (UTC)

Visscher didn't want to make a scene, so he just shifted nervously. "Don't worry about it. I will have a drink, I think." He ordered a whiskey, and downed it as if it was nothing at all. There. He had done it. They could leave them alone now.

But then another man was staring, and feigned generosity by ordering both him and the reddish man another. Visscher just sighed, looked down at it with a puff of breath, and swallowed with the slightest wince of face. Always an unpleasant drink.

Tuco looked a little at a loss. He'd psyched himself up for a fight, only now he seemed to have been sidelined, left to watch the beginnings of an impromptu drinking contest instead. Setting his glass down, he reached over (hesitating briefly like some tiny part of him was trying for a gentler, less encouraging gesture) and clapped his hand against Visscher's shoulder.

"That wasn't so bad, huh?" he said brightly, glancing from one badly lit face to another. It wasn't like the place had gone silent, but the energy had changed. For every few men lost in the bottom of their drinks, there was another staring in their direction. And maybe they were just curious... but maybe they were thinking what he was thinking, too.

"You think you can keep going?" he asked, voice now a hushed half-whisper.

Edited 2015-03-20 01:28 (UTC)

"It isn't bad, Herr Ramírez. Not at all. Like I said before, it isn't that I don't appreciate the offer but it does little for me. I didn't want you to waste your money."

Another drink was slid at him, and to the other man. It was of a different sort. Not poisonous, he knew, the bartender knew what to vend to whom, but still...

He sniffed it and downed that as well, as if he weren't worried about mixing at all. "However, I don't feel entirely guilty about drinking at their expense." He sort of almost quirked a half smile. Not devious, but enough to say that he could still appreciate a man making his own bed, despite having a good heart.

Tuco folded his arms in front of him, dipping to rest his chin atop the point where his wrists crossed. "Yeah," he replied glumly, glancing over at his own half-empty glass. "Maybe it's a lesson to learn, huh? Something to teach to all thirsty bastards. The world famous Dr Fisher on how to keep your throat wet all night without spending a dime." He slid his eyes across again and smiled with his own wonky signature. "'S the kind of guilt we all happy to live with."

Not that he was in any hurry to down whatever colourful concoction a stranger would wish upon him, of course, but that didn't mean he didn't feel peculiarly jealous. It was like their chance encounter earlier had awoken some primitive part of his brain, and now he just wanted attention—all of the attention, good or bad.

Still, he supposed there was money to be made in being a spectator. If the situation continued to escalate, he was sure there'd be some profit in it.

"Just don't get too cocky, okay?"

4th Wall Event

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I replied to this yesterday. I must have closed the window.

Nay worries, buddy!

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