I know that you're tired of this

[viced]

WHO: MITCHELL HUNDRED and YOU
WHERE: Around the City
WHEN: 9/08 to 9/12
WARNINGS: Will edit if necessary
SUMMARY: It's just one of those weeks
FORMAT: tagger's choice!



[ A ]
City Hall was where he spent the great majority of his time. Most people called him a workaholic, sure, and it was true enough. The trouble was that he had too much to do, and not enough time to do it in. It wasn't poor time-management, not really, but poor delegation that often left the Mayor constantly working. He didn't like leaving it to other people, if he could help it. He hated leaving work to someone else. He drew a good paycheck, and was voted into office, he should be able to do everything within his power to make sure he paid back a vote with work. And Christ, did he work.

Long hours meant he was often there from before the sun rose to after the sun set -- well after. He liked it, because the longer he was here, the less he dwelt on other things. Like if keeping himself focused on everything he needed to do would keep him from thinking about anything else. He didn't like dwelling. He wanted to work, and keep working. Sentiment and following trains of thought would lead to ruin, if he let them. He was out just as much as he was in, events, speeches, things that he had to do. He could honestly be found at any of them, but City Hall was always the most consistent, even if you generally needed some kind of appointment to get through security, but that was easily arranged, if needed.

Or he was even storming the halls. As was often the case. If anything, he seemed like he was on more of a mission than lately, demanding more of his employees, but maybe there was a good reason for that, or maybe the time here was getting to him, and he wanted to do more. They hadn't done enough, and he was feeling the press of time pushing in.

[ B ]
But with long hours came a necessity. That necessity was caffeine. The mayor tried to send other people out for his coffee, or to just drink a pot or two of the stuff that was left in the breakrooms. There was a lot of coffee that went missing from the breakrooms, but he also went out often enough for the precious black sludge, needing an almost constant intake of coffee for him to stay on the level that he needed to be at.

Which meant there was also quite a bit of standing in line, for him. Or even stopping to talk with people who felt the need to tell him exactly what they thought, in public. It wasn't enough that he had a weekly radio address, or tried to make his administration as open as possible, but nobody wanted to wait in line. Nobody wanted to wait for a chance to talk to him, not when he was right there and available for them to talk to now. So he would listen to their complaints in line, or after getting his coffee, or even when he was trying to walk out, trying to play it off while still getting in the direction that he needed to go. It wasn't perfect, but hey, he had to do something didn't he? No need to pull Bradbury in to call them off, although every now and again, it did happen.

[ C ]
Closer to Wednesday, he found himself slipping closer to alcohol, as a way to cope. It wasn't that he didn't know how to, or that he thought he needed it, but this time of the year was always harder for him. Memories seemed sharper, his dreams seemed more violent, and he remembered the sounds and smells, being right there, that other people didn't remember. He tried not to drink in excess, with his family history, it wouldn't go well. He never wanted to go down that path, and he couldn't afford to lose that kind of control.

But slipping out from the watchful eye of security was easier said than done. It was easier just to let them trail him, and so he did, making it obvious that he went out for a drink. It wasn't often, it was rare, but when it got closer, he found himself picking up the glass more often. It helped, in a small way. Made it so he didn't have to dwell so much on the problem. He didn't want to drink it away, no. That was the path of ruin, he knew, but maybe just to make it so he didn't think on things a while. His other coping mechanism would let him slow down, but it left him with this thoughts. He didn't need that. He'd had his fill of going without his powers. Normally he reveled in the opportunity to hear himself think, but time without his powers, especially now, felt more sickening, and concerning than anything else.

So he sat in silence, in a ball cap and sunglasses, in a dark corner of the bar, holding onto his drink like it was a lifeline. He wasn't conspicuous, but he was obviously the type of person who was trying to hide who he was, too. Anonymity was a luxury he hadn't been able to afford in over ten years, but you worked with what you had.

[ D ]
[ Misc! Tagger's choice goes here if you have something else you'd like to do! ]

Comments

c (going into d WHO KNOWS): 9/11, evening

[waiting]

If there was anyone who knew exactly what the significance of the upcoming day meant, of course, it would be the one other person from Mitchell's world. Perhaps there were others who came from a place where that had been something that happened, but he'd heard of both towers lost, not just one. Not where a man had intervened to bring a plane touching down on a stretch of asphalt in the middle of New York City.

Mitch might not like talking about it, Bradbury might not like thinking about it, but with his boss slipping away to have a drink -- not in the privacy of his home, but an actual honest-to-goodness bar -- it was obvious it was on his mind anyway.

He wasn't always on the security detail tagging after Mitch's ass these days: establishing independence, maybe, or making the point that he had a life outside his job, and maybe Mitch did too. Leading by example, not that Mitch ever followed. But that didn't mean he didn't keep track of where he was, security team keeping him updated on where he was and what he was up to. The message that his boss had planted his ass at a bar was waiting for him when he slipped out of the shower. Half an hour later, he hadn't budged.

There were other merits to being off the clock, and though he really should have been using the time for sleeping for another early start, he found himself dressing to go out anyway. Not in his full security getup, which would have been a dead giveaway, but something more casual, jacket tossed over some metal band's shirt, and jeans that had been worn out before he'd gotten them. When he got to the bar in question, he nodded at the security team on his way in, giving the bartender his order before he strode over to plunk his ass solidly into the empty seat across Mitch.

Only when he was sitting down did he realize he had no idea what to say.

"Hey."

[viced]

As if Mitch didn't realize what the security detail had been doing, which he was fully aware, but he didn't care. Or at least, he didn't bring it up. He knew why, or he suspected why. Bradbury had been forced to do something he shouldn't have done. He knew, inherently, that he needed space, and time away, and Mitchell wasn't beyond providing that.

If he had the rest of the security detail at his side for the time being, then he did. It was easier for him, and Bradbury would clear his head, and that was good enough.

He didn't dwell on it, just like everything else. He worked through his problems, worked through everything. But now he wasn't working, and instead was sitting in a shitty dive bar after a long day of pretending that this didn't have an effect on him. Pretending to go through the motions in the way most politicians did about the matter. Gave speeches about America, and their strength and commitment to moving forward, shake hands, thank people for their sacrifice, tell them he was sorry for their loss. It always felt fake, and not enough. He didn't let the human side through, the one that felt the scars of it, and wore it on his heart.

He still remembered it all, the stench of burning flesh, crumbling cement, and ash. So much ash he could barely breath, the taste and scent of his own blood in his nose and his mouth.

He didn't jump, when Bradbury entered, or sat down, somehow, he was painfully aware of him being there. He was the only one that really knew what today meant to him. He could say what he did, but the moment he'd come in, the moment he saw the empty skyline, and how his stomach had felt sick, and his legs weak. Even now, back home, New York City's skyline was being repaired, an open wound that had finally been patched and set, ready to heal.

There was no such comfort here.

"Hey," he replied, just as articulately. "Isn't it past your bedtime? I'm pretty sure normal people need sleep."

[waiting]

"You say that like I was normal in the first place."

And sure, maybe he was normal by some standards. He wasn't out there fighting in a cape and spandex, and he'd never felt the particular draw to heroism (or being a villain, for that matter) that other imPorts did. He didn't even come from a world where powers were par for the course.

But signing up to be a sidekick for some guy who kept spouting on about being able to hear radio, when they only thing you had connecting you was that he'd gotten his face blown half-off on your boat? Sticking around with a guy who'd asked you to kill him just because he'd been your friend, once? He didn't know if most people would call it normal. Hell, he figured he knew what most people would call it: pathetic.

But Bradbury'd never really been one to care about appearances. Whatever else there was between them (or wasn't), this -- the simple companionship, the act of being there --was one thing only he could give Mitch. He kicked him under the table, gently, before settling back in his seat.

"This what you do every year?" They hadn't had a ritual, back home -- two years meant it was still too fresh, the memory of death (and selfishly, in Bradbury's case, the relief of death averted) too heavy. But it had been longer than that for Mitch, and there was genuine curiosity in the question, the tip of his head as he watched Mitch across the table.

Was this all there was to the future Mitch had to look forward to? Drinking alone on the anniversary of what was either his greatest triumph or his greatest failure, depending on who you asked? Bradbury knew which sides of that line he and Mitch stood on.

[viced]

Mitchell gave him a look, when he kicked him under the table, the kind of narrowed eyed look that spoke volumes. He almost, almost called him out on it. "Are you trying to fucking play footsie with me?" was on the tip of his tongue, but he held himself back, not even doing anything in response. Thinned lips, and a look, maybe, but that was all. If it were five, maybe even three years ago, he wouldn't have hesitated.

It was a different time now.

"What, spend a few hours in a bar? It's not that weird, is it?" he asked it, a curl to his lips that was mostly sardonic.

On most people, it wouldn't be all that odd. On most people, it would just be a simple fact, something that they did, not even an oddity. Expected. With Mitchell, it was different -- more -- than just that. It was something that toyed with the line of being human, something that revealed a part of him that he wasn't always willing to let out. The part that said he was more than a monolith. The part that said that he wasn't out of reach for most people.

The distraction wasn't necessarily welcome, but... well, it was better than sitting and just thinking about it.

(b)

[hotbrains]

He's been here for long enough that all things considered, he really should know. He works with the law enforcement, on and off, he should at least know who the mayor is. And he does, in that absent sort of way: he knows his name, he knows that he's an imPort. He couldn't pick him out of a police lineup -- he couldn't even pick him out of a crowd.

And he doesn't.

He just finds himself, swaying and blinking; trying to steady himself on his feet in a Starbucks line at roughly 3a.m. eastern standard time. He finds himself digging for his worn old wallet in the back of his jeans and finding nothing, be it due to his sieve of a memory or the mental blinkers that he puts on to slog through the day. He could have left it at home, and it might be innocently waiting for him on his dresser -- or someone may have taken it from its customary place at his left hip without him being any the wiser. Either way, he has no way to pay the barista in front of him.

"I-I'm sorry, I'm going to have to- Can I just ask you to hold that, I can be back in... Ten minutes, I'll be back, I'll have the cash with me..."

[viced]

3 am is a weird time, and a time that normally even he would be in bed sleeping. Normally. Unfortunately, he hasn't been sleeping much, less than usual. Ambien doesn't help, in the slightest, and he's given up on trying to sleep with any regularity. Instead, he's taken to staying up later, or maybe waking earlier, it's hard to tell. He's the guy behind Will in a slightly rumpled suit, a hand in his pocket, his hair still disheveled, and the air of "still being up" written across his face. It wasn't going to be a night he slept, most likely.

Hence the need for coffee. His body was used to little sleep, but this? This was practically abuse, and he knew it. He just didn't care enough to worry. He'd always pushed his body just a bit harder than he probably should have.

"Hey, don't worry about it, pal," he spoke up, waving a hand at the barista to hand it over. They, of course, were much more familiar with who the mayor was, let it slide. They knew he was good for his money. "I'll catch you this time. By the time you get your cash and get back, your fucking drink will be way too cold to drink."

Honestly, with as much as he drank, it was more likely that he'd lost any sense of heat, since he tended to drink his straight out of the cup and fresh from the pot. He waved a hand, and the girl wrote his usual on the cup. They knew what he liked, since he frequented the place often enough.

[hotbrains]

"Ah, geeze, I-" Will rubs at the back of his neck, ducking his head down to stare fixedly at the man's shoes. He feels like a teenager, caught short on his allowance. "Thank you. I, um... I guess I owe you one."

He grabs the cardboard cup when it's presented, trying to stifle the urge to just bolt. "If you want to give me your address, I could mail you the cash--" Oh, god. Oh god, he isn't sure whether he sounds more like a sloppy pickup artist or a sloppy serial killer. And he has enough experience with one of those demographics to know that the pre-hangover hour in midtown was not a time or place he wants to start raising red flags.

Will pushes his glasses up, sighing as he aborts the sentence fullstop. "Or don't do that. That's probably a terrible idea. We can just rely on chance, and maybe at some other ungodly hour, I can pay you back." In a city of eight million people. Sure.

b;

[withamask]

As of late, Renee's had two vices: alcohol and coffee. And while libations dulled the pain more, a source of caffeine was the better option right now.

Waiting irritably (but silently) in line, another customer bumps into her while trying to speak to the famous Mayor. Annoyed, she glares at both of them.

[viced]

The poor, poor mayor really didn't need it this early. The elderly gentleman wasn't too bad, just pushy, but meek. He was soft-spoken, and Mitch turned toward him, to hear him in the noise of the coffee shop. Now, to most people it was just the usual din of noise. Some chatter, the hiss of steam, grinders running in the background, the clang of metal devices and pieces, and the soft slide of the register drawer.

Some industrial mesh of human and machine.

To the mayor, it was more machine than man, voices all over the room, like a crowd leaning in for his attention.

He offered her an apologetic glance, and gave the guy a time that he could actually call the radio show, and that he'd get through. Yes, he promised. No, he wasn't blowing him off, but it was very early, and I think they disturbed the woman in front of them, and he was sure everyone just really wanted their coffee; oh, and he could barely think before his first cup of joe himself.

The man backed off, and he rubbed the back of his neck, a touch of shame in his smile.

[withamask]

Once she notices the age of the man, her expression softens. With a soft sigh, she folds her arms and stares ahead. How long does it take to get a cup of coffee in this place?

a what else but a

[aggressiveapathy]

The minions are revolting.

[April says this in the doorway. Arms crossed over her chest. As if she were a badass action hero instead of an expendable City Hall minion staring down her boss. It was the good thing about losing people, really. That you just stopped caring about what the people that were left said and did-

Or at least that's what she told herself. If the boss man actually started yelling? That may be a different story.]

And not, like. In their normal gross way.

a is the forever answer

[viced]

Oh really? What are they mad about this time, not enough time on facebook and linkedin?

[ He couldn't really say much, since he spoke enough to things that could process the social networks, and it was better than talking about the long hours everyone was working.

Especially people who they could afford to pay, and who could do gruntwork as well. ]

[aggressiveapathy]

No one uses linkedin. People only sign up ironically.

[Old man. If only she were behind the safety of the internet. As it is, she looks up at the ceiling with the smallest sigh.]

But. If that's where they have to go vote for which intern to offer up in sacrifice to appease you, I guess they'll get accounts.

B

[motherfucked]

[ Jessica frequented this coffee shop often, especially when she was keeping weird hours. Which was all the time, because that was the job. So she was annoyed that there was a big mob around some guy instead of, you know, a coffee line. No one had time for this shit. ]

Hey. Get in line, people!

[ She doesn't see that it's Mitch they're crowding around. One of the guys standing between him and her is NFL linebacker large. ]

[viced]

[ She might not realize it's Mitch, but Mitch knows that voice better than anyone else in the coffee shop. It rings over the whole lot of them, including the big guy, who turns his head, and then scoffs, and looks back at the mayor.

The big guy, in particular, was mad about some new ordinance in his neighborhood, something about prohibiting loud music after ten. Not something he really had control of, or the police who kept being called to his apartment. ]

Hey, come on guys, calm down. Listen, pal, if you want to talk about it, maybe get into touch with my office, or your ordinance coordinator? I'm just trying to get some coffee here.

[ He was playing it off pretty well, all things considered. But then again, he was also trying to get a fucking cup of coffee. When he saw Jessica, he waved. ]

[motherfucked]

Oh, Mitch.

[ Now she's close enough to recognize his voice, though still invisible behind the large man wall. ]

Can't you like, order them to all get in the fucking line?

a mashup of b & d... sort of.

[boobwindow]

[ It was a conflicting feeling, to be happy to be back in the City, but Peej was in some ways. At least they had an actual sewage system and nobody had to wear corsets threatening to break their rib cages.

It seems as if, so far, people haven't quite figured out what happened in Asthenoa. Investigating is a priority, but she hasn't really uncovered anything. She decides to tear away from the library and any public records of Vulcanus and scope out the City, see where she might be needed.

So, it comes as a surprise when she zips past Mitch on his way somewhere to see him out here and not in City Hall. She hovers back toward him, thinking he can't really miss the red cape the closer she floats to him. ]

Mayor Hundred?

[viced]

[ He'd been just jogging out, coffee in tow when he peeled out of the small shop. He'd been in his own little world, really, the familiar sounds of machines bleeding into the backdrop of already ambient City noise. Cars, people, the random sound and shout, like the familiar industrial mixed with the painfully human.

The sight of a red cape, his name, and he meant his real name, not the familiar green integer that he heard in his head from the machines, left him turning his head up.

And there was that familiar shock, a thrill, at seeing ink and paper and gloss come to life right before his very eyes. In Asthenoa it hadn't been as familiar, as visceral and real, when she wasn't in the costume.

He stopped, his hand almost losing his cup, before he caught it. ]

Sh-- Oh, Power Girl. Hey.

[boobwindow]

[ It's the sort of look and feeling she misses; Cityzens are familiar with superheroes, but their fears aren't put to rest when she flies about the City and helps out wherever an extra handed is needed. She doesn't need super hearing to make out the occasional nasty jab about "meddling imPorts".

And so with Mitch, it comes as both welcoming and surprising. ]

Afternoon. Didn't think I would see you out of office so early.

( b )

[solidorkable]

[Larsa felt that if he stood in line to get Mitchell coffee, that he was just enabling bad behavior. But, it seemed that this week was harder than most for the mayor. He respected the mayor's privacy enough not to pry, but he was still worried.

Being the good intern that he was, he ran by the coffee shop after school to grab whatever coffee he could for the mayor along with a cup of tea. Mitchell might spot him blending in looking at news on the phone, working even now.]

[viced]

[ Unfortunately for Larsa, his boss was already there, already getting the biggest, blackest coffee imaginable, with an extra couple shots of espresso, for good measure. He'd been backing out of the line, sipping at a ridiculously hot cup, making his way back toward the door, when he noticed his intern.

He hadn't been expecting him, wasn't he supposed to be on his way to City Hall by this point?

He stopped. ]

Larsa, don't tell me you're already starting to pick up on my bad habits?

[solidorkable]

[Had it not been for the strong smell of coffee almost hitting him in the face, he wouldn't have heard the Mayor. Pulling off his earbuds with an expression of slight disapproval, he glanced at the coffee and back to the Mitchell.

He had beaten him to it.]

Worry not, I prefer to keep myself alert through other means. [that might or might not be a jab at Mitch's habits.]

[d]

[enigmaestro]

[Tuesday afternoon.]

Mitchell.

[His knocking is a speed more frantic than usual: rap-a-raptap instead of the three solid, assured knuckle percussion. His voice doesn't betray the anxiety that his flesh might.]

Mitchell, are you in? I've been looking around, and all the coffee shops in all the world haven't even a clue of your whereabouts.

[viced]

[ Even if he couldn't see it from behind the door, Mitch's head swung at the familiar sound of his deputy mayor's voice, and even his knuckles against the wood of his door. It was quick strides across finely carpeted floors, and a soft acknowledgement that he'd heard him, a simple "just a second," out of his mouth, and moments later, the door opened.

The face that met his deputy's was drawn slightly, a little more than the usual exhaustion, just a touch more. ]

Well, you know, I can't spend all my time at the coffee shop. I'm pretty sure then I might not get elected to any office again.

[ A touch rueful, even while he opened the door to let him in, eyes tracking the way he moved. Edward normally wasn't so...quick in his knocks. Not enough to call him out on, but enough for him to watch for an opening. ]

[enigmaestro]

A bit pessimistic of you. I hear that specific sort of locale translates well to particular demographics.

[He strode in, shutting the door behind him. Locking it. His mannerisms were crisp, concise, measured. The body language of a schemer. Turning around slowly, Edward kept his lips drawn in a tight line.]

Were you in that -- that thing? The video game?

[He had been avoiding the topic since. This isn't the sort of thing he likes to discuss, these helpless moments. It reminded him too well of how powerless these empowered beings were.]