michiko ☢ malandro (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jailbrake) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2012-06-12 01:29 am
jailbrake) wrote in capeandcowllogs2012-06-12 01:29 am
the words of a drunk fade in the light
WHO: Michiko Malandro AND YOU??
WHERE: Either a divey dive bar or a sidewalk a few blocks away!
WHEN: LATE NIGHT... OR LATER NIGHT...
WARNINGS: Michiko's mouth, gettin crunk
SUMMARY: The opening is unbelievably long and stupid but basically ANGRY GROWN-ASS WOMAN GETS DRUNK WHILE OPENLY READING A THIRD GRADE STYLE ATLAS AT A BAR; LATER, WALKS HOME ANGRILY AND DRUNKENLY. DO YOU WANT TO TOSS YOUR CHARACTER INTO THIS MAELSTROM.
FORMAT: whatever whatever you do what you want
She hadn't stayed in the MAC the first few nights, taking out a lousy room in a cheap hotel instead, but time and money constraints mean Michiko has no choice but to crash there--at least until she pulls off some stunt that'll net her the money to make it stop being an issue. Bank security is tighter here, but she would be kidding herself to think that was her only reason for holding back. This is a blank slate, sort of, and she can still see Hatchin in her mind's eye, looking up reproachfully with those big brown eyes and all too ready to shout at her the second she starts to fuck it up all over again. She remembers her own words--you'll get better if you're with her, I just know it--and it can't be that much of a stretch to hold back for a while, keep her nose clean and the cops off her tail. It's been a long time since she hasn't been running, and now that the relief has started to get old it's almost uncomfortable.
Not that all of that's kept her from stealing a car, food, or the sundress she's currently wearing--the hell is she going to do, get a job? Getting by off petty theft, dining and ditching, and a lack of rooming expenses means she has more of the machine's stipend to spend. She blows the first week's on a paperback atlas of world geography, brightly colored and apparently intended for kids, and the shots she's been slowly but steadily ordering as she pores over the former. She's not bad with directions or roadmaps, but place names are another story--especially with the dim light, in all these other goddamn languages--and when she asks the bartender about one he looks at her like she's some kind of moron. Which is better than some kind of Import, as far as she can tell.
She's not running, but now there's nowhere to run to; that or she's in prison either way, marked just like everyone else with those dogtags. Michiko glowers down at the spread she's opened it to, the map accompanied by a picture of smiling, sunkissed children in costume, and flips it over so roughly she almost tears it. Still, her fingers trace the pages in her lap for a few hours, though the way she flags down the bartender gets consistently ruder over time.
The fuckers won't even let her smoke, so when she staggers back in the direction of the MAC, just the slightest bit wobbly on stolen heels, she's got a cigarette firmly between her lips and a scowl for anyone she suspects might call her out on it--which, to be fair, is pretty much everyone in her current state. The city blocks are wider around here, the buildings taller, the weather milder, but it's still only a matter of time before she makes it back. Just a few more blocks, her handbag swinging at her side like a pendulum, and a few more smokes, and then she can finally get some sleep. At least her dreams stay the same.
WHERE: Either a divey dive bar or a sidewalk a few blocks away!
WHEN: LATE NIGHT... OR LATER NIGHT...
WARNINGS: Michiko's mouth, gettin crunk
SUMMARY: The opening is unbelievably long and stupid but basically ANGRY GROWN-ASS WOMAN GETS DRUNK WHILE OPENLY READING A THIRD GRADE STYLE ATLAS AT A BAR; LATER, WALKS HOME ANGRILY AND DRUNKENLY. DO YOU WANT TO TOSS YOUR CHARACTER INTO THIS MAELSTROM.
FORMAT: whatever whatever you do what you want
She hadn't stayed in the MAC the first few nights, taking out a lousy room in a cheap hotel instead, but time and money constraints mean Michiko has no choice but to crash there--at least until she pulls off some stunt that'll net her the money to make it stop being an issue. Bank security is tighter here, but she would be kidding herself to think that was her only reason for holding back. This is a blank slate, sort of, and she can still see Hatchin in her mind's eye, looking up reproachfully with those big brown eyes and all too ready to shout at her the second she starts to fuck it up all over again. She remembers her own words--you'll get better if you're with her, I just know it--and it can't be that much of a stretch to hold back for a while, keep her nose clean and the cops off her tail. It's been a long time since she hasn't been running, and now that the relief has started to get old it's almost uncomfortable.
Not that all of that's kept her from stealing a car, food, or the sundress she's currently wearing--the hell is she going to do, get a job? Getting by off petty theft, dining and ditching, and a lack of rooming expenses means she has more of the machine's stipend to spend. She blows the first week's on a paperback atlas of world geography, brightly colored and apparently intended for kids, and the shots she's been slowly but steadily ordering as she pores over the former. She's not bad with directions or roadmaps, but place names are another story--especially with the dim light, in all these other goddamn languages--and when she asks the bartender about one he looks at her like she's some kind of moron. Which is better than some kind of Import, as far as she can tell.
She's not running, but now there's nowhere to run to; that or she's in prison either way, marked just like everyone else with those dogtags. Michiko glowers down at the spread she's opened it to, the map accompanied by a picture of smiling, sunkissed children in costume, and flips it over so roughly she almost tears it. Still, her fingers trace the pages in her lap for a few hours, though the way she flags down the bartender gets consistently ruder over time.
The fuckers won't even let her smoke, so when she staggers back in the direction of the MAC, just the slightest bit wobbly on stolen heels, she's got a cigarette firmly between her lips and a scowl for anyone she suspects might call her out on it--which, to be fair, is pretty much everyone in her current state. The city blocks are wider around here, the buildings taller, the weather milder, but it's still only a matter of time before she makes it back. Just a few more blocks, her handbag swinging at her side like a pendulum, and a few more smokes, and then she can finally get some sleep. At least her dreams stay the same.