tell me i'm evil [open]

[comesfrompain]

Who: Brock Rumlow & you!
Where: Around town, Crossbones Boxing
When: 05.15-05.31
What: Just hanging out with this cool old dude. Or whatever!
Warnings: Language. More will be added as needed.


gym.

With doors wide open in invitation, a handful of people can be seen inside the gym. Some getting their own workout in, lifting weights, hitting bags, one seated and wrapping their hands. Near the back stands Rumlow, watching someone hitting one of the heavy bags. His expression serious, calculating, observing as each hit lands. Every so often, he'll give praise, or a correction to his student. A few minutes later, he glances up at the clock on the wall, claps his student on the back and tells them to cool off.

He meanders after, looking between the other patrons and giving them a few choice tips here and there before he heads into his office. The door remains open, and he seems to be going over some paperwork. His expression is disengaged, preoccupied with other thoughts. Either that or reading on paper is incredibly tedious, being used to the glare of a backlit computer. He'll shift between one paper and the next after a while. It doesn't seem like he would mind a visitor.

Probably because he's bored and checking over the contracts and making sure everyone is up to date on their bills is supremely dull. He is really considering hiring someone to do this for him, because while it's within his means, it's shit he really would rather pay someone else to do. Especially so he can focus on coaching. Or spending inordinate amounts of time working out to prevent his mind from wandering to the multitude of thoughts that plague him.

Coaching steals his focus better. It's impersonal and physical enough to keep his troubling memories at bay.

edge of town.

Some days of the week, Rumlow can be found running along the edge of the woods and through the less trafficked roads in town. Jogging along, he'll keep to himself, going around or cutting away from any others that might be in his path. Primarily he keeps to the outskirts, pace slow and built more for endurance than speed. Every so often, he'll slow his pace and do a little shadow boxing, as if to shove away the mundanity of cardio.

Rumlow wishes he had music to listen to, but jogging plus CD players equals skipping and that shit is even more annoying than silence. Plus, apparently earbuds haven't been invented yet here or whatever, and like Hell he's gonna wear over-ear headphones when he's running. Fashion fucking disaster. If you're quick enough or manage to get his attention, he's like to stop.

wildcard.

[ooc: your choice! feel free to plurk me if you have ideas!]

Comments

soooometime after http://pinesnet.dreamwidth.org/6088.html

[shoplifter]

[Laura will eventually make her way to the gym, as requested. Trading Spanish lessons for boxing, as they agreed. Obviously. Nothing relating to conspiracies or town trouble here, no sir, no way. She arrives with her tattered up green backpack and her snazzy shades -- incognito, I am Mrs. Inglesias, all that jazz. She looks around the place with her usual curiosity and scopes out the Italian Man in question.

... Sorry if she just sort of appears behind you like a spooky ghost. She's weird like that.

Pokerface as hell.]

somehow it's really bizarre that technically these characters are from the same comic multiverse

[comesfrompain]

[It's pretty important to have situational awareness in all aspects of life, least of all in a gym where people are lifting heavy weights and throwing punches. That being said, Rumlow still manages to get slightly startled by the sudden presence of a very small person behind him. He turns, lips twitching up in amusement at being caught (slightly!!) off guard.]

Hey kid. [He says, since he still doesn't know her name.] Welcome back.

[Since she's been here before, right? He gestures with a nod towards his office, across the pad. Rumlow starts walking around it, though he's barefoot, she isn't. No need to get footprints on it. He opens the door to the office, leaves it that way as he goes to sit his desk. Takes him a moment to clear the paperwork off of it, tucking the folders back into his drawer.]

Name's Brock. What's yours?

SOMEHOW

[shoplifter]

Laura.

[Such a conversationalist. She takes off her backpack and offers him a slightly rumpled pad of paper from it, tilted so that the cameras have a hard time picking it up at all.

THE SHERIFF CAME AFTER THE CALL.
HE TOOK THE TRACKER PIECES. WAS CONFUSED WHEN WE SAID WE REMOVED OURS.
MY DAD TOLD HIM TO FUCK OFF.]

Aquí tienes. Spanish lesson.

[A pause. Pokerfaced.]

I wrote it at school.

[comesfrompain]

[Rumlow doesn't need small talk, but he's glad to know her name. Now he's got something to call her. Anyway. He looks at the paper, reads it quickly. His brows furrow and his finger traces along, like he's trying to read in a foreign language.]

So it looks like we have accents in the same place.

[Rumlow says, giving Laura a significant look. Accents being code for trackers, of course. He reaches for a pen in the little can on his desk and begins to write down below what she's written.

Is it back? They replace the cameras, they might replace these too.]

Yeah?

[shoplifter]

Sí, it's the same.

[She considers the notepad, plopping down on the edge of the desk (what is common courtesy) and scribbling; her handwriting isn't terrible, but she's eleven, so it's certainly got that childish flair to it.

IT COMES BACK EVERY NIGHT.
I'M GOING TO STAY UP AS LONG AS POSSIBLE.
IT MIGHT NOT RETURN.]

... There are words I don't know. In Italian.

I'd like to learn them.

[Scribble, scribble.

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE TOWN?
I KNOW SOME THINGS, TOO.

She taps her finger at the pad.]

Mira. El Italiano — what is vicino?

[comesfrompain]

[Tilting his head to read what's written, Rumlow scoots a little closer. As if to read better, but really just shifting to obscure the camera's view. He spins the pen in his fingers. Rumlow knows what Laura means, he's just formulating how to tell her. What theories he believes are more credible. He taps the pen on the paper.]

Close. Simile. I know a little Spanish. I'll write down some things, and then what they are in Italian, sì?

[Rumlow begins to write.

When I came here, they said I was in an accident. Same with my friend, and a bunch of other people. I don't know what really happened, but it definitely wasn't an accident. The cameras are everywhere. Audio recording too, but the microphones are a little trickier to find, they don't reflect light. I destroyed them in my house, but when we left, they were all replaced.

Tell me more about the trackers. What do they look like?

He hasn't cut his own out, but he definitely felt around his body to try and find it. Sure enough. It's there, just beneath the skin.]

Does this look familiar?

[shoplifter]

[She nods, attentive as ever, absorbing every letter. Memorizing it, perhaps. If only she were this attentive in class, huh. When it's her turn, she takes the pen slowly, gnawing her lip.

LIKE RICE. SMALL, VERY SMALL. DEEP UNDER THE SKIN.
LITTLE WIRES AND PARTS. I BROKE THEM, BUT I CAN HIDE THEM INSTEAD NOW.

A pause.]

"¿De dónde es usted?" How do you say "Where are you from?" in Italian?

[I ALSO MET THE MAN THEY WERE LOOKING FOR.
THE JANITOR. HE WAS AFRAID. HE SAID

DO NOT FOLLOW THE SCREAMS.]

[comesfrompain]

[Rumlow nods, smiles. Playing along. He's curious about taking his own out now, more for inspecting the device rather than stopping them from following him. Though, as Laura has said, they come back once you're asleep, so Rumlow figures he could make use of the interim between removal and replacement. It's good information.

The janitor though. That's definitely new. He recalls there being an announcement about him, but hadn't really heard much more than that. Hadn't suspected much, at the time, too focused on the people he remembered.]

Di dove sei. [Rumlow says, putting the pen to paper once more.] I'll write it down.

[Just makes you more suspicious, doesn't it? Supposedly, I've been in this town for about a year, but I 'woke up' from the accident a few months ago. I wonder if the screams have anything to do with the people being prepared to come here, because I don't buy it for a minute that we've all been here as long as the memories would have us believe.]

How about 'how old are you?' Quanti anni hai?

[shoplifter]

[She smiles. Acting, pure and simple, an eager little smile.]

¿Cuántos años tienes?

I'll show you.

[She writes:

IT MIGHT BE PEOPLE WHO KNOW TOO MUCH.
JANITOR SAID HE LEARNED SOMETHING HE SHOULD NOT HAVE.

SAID WHEN THEY CATCH YOU, YOU ARE NEVER THE SAME.]

Años is year... What year is it, here?