Brock Rumlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
comesfrompain) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
pineslog2017-05-17 02:54 pm
comesfrompain) wrote in pineslog2017-05-17 02:54 pm
tell me i'm evil [open]
Who: Brock Rumlow & you!
Where: Around town, Crossbones Boxing
When: 05.15-05.31
What: Just hanging out with thiscool 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!]
Where: Around town, Crossbones Boxing
When: 05.15-05.31
What: Just hanging out with this
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!]
gym
There was evil in this town. There was the kind of thing that cut people open and changed them, and he didn't want to think of what else had been done to some of the people here, the people he cared about, before he started to do something about it.
Of course, he had the lantern, and he had his shears and his gun. They were all good weapons, worthwhile weapons, but they were all far too deadly for use in most situations. He turned on the lantern and almost certainly, someone was going to die. Possibly multiple someones. Seeing all those scattered, frantic can lids...
His fingers clenched and he had to breathe a few times before he started looking for someone: to pay, to help him learn, something. His fists were still weapons, and he knew just how much force was behind them, but maybe he could figure out how to fight for himself, in a non-lethal way. Keep from adding more blood to the endless ocean he'd already spilled and the army of hands reaching out to pull him into the blackness.
Hopefully. He had to hope.