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capeandcowllogs2014-01-07 10:22 pm
viced) wrote in capeandcowllogs2014-01-07 10:22 pm
Entry tags:
I'm driving motherfuckers hysterical
WHO: MITCHELL HUNDRED and RICK BRADBURY
WHERE: The mobile, temporary Mayoral office, now located idk the subway tunnel underneath what used to be City Hall???
WHEN:Backdated to 01/05/2013, probably closer to 10 pm.
WARNINGS: Drug use.
SUMMARY: He didn't think he'd be caught.
FORMAT: Paragraph.
Mitch's office kept having to move. After losing not just City Hall, but then Gracie Mansion and the rest of the possible places to hole up, things were getting a bit old. Mitchell, of course, mourned a little differently than anyone else could. He didn't worry as much about the people who'd already been killed in whatever disaster or the other over the past week; recognizing in his usual, cold fashion that this was inevitable. Oh, he was sad, but people were people. What he really mourned, predictably, was the architecture. Over two hundred years of building something beautiful, over and over her, spires of metal, theaters, homes, and any number of architectural marvels. He couldn't help it, honestly, knowing that they were gone to the entire world, that quickly. Just like before, when he'd watched the storming of Baghdad, he hadn't been as sad about the war as he was their buildings.
They had their own souls, after all. It was like losing a mentor, or maybe an older friend. He'd felt greater sorrows, but watching New York City fall apart before his eyes -- and dammit he could think of it like that, and not the goddamn City for once -- it was depressing. If he'd been anyone else, or someone who wasn't as focused on survival as Mitch was, he might have just sat down, and waited. It was looking more and more inevitable, certain death, or something like that. Things kept getting more and more eerie, and while he was used to some serious bullshit, nothing like this even came close. Sure, he'd had a penchant for sci fi, and understood goddamn Crisis, but that didn't make this easier to handle. Hell, even the Old Bitch was gone, and there was an odd pang at that thought. They'd been together a long time, he and that goddamn bridge, and even if it wasn't a place he wanted to be near ever again, there was a solidarity that he felt with the damn thing.
He'd honestly thought that a few hours of "sleep" was going to be the close he was going to get to forgetting about it. Mitchell was sleeping less than normal, practically slipping at the seams at time, working day and night, coordinating where and when he could, already burnt through three times his usual cigarette intake. Not healthy for a guy who normally kept his smoking to only the most stressful of situations.
Pretty much a good chunk of City Hall was elsewhere, spread out to make sure they weren't all in one place. They were still in and out, for sure, but at least nobody was housed in this one place. Mitch was, however, and at least it was fortifiable to keep him somewhat safe, although who knew how long that would last? He'd taken to sleeping close to the "office", having appropriated one room for himself, to "sleep", but mostly to sit back there and just breathe. Try for some TM that didn't quite hit the right spot, or open up the small vent he'd found, and pull something out of his pocket, if he knew he'd have a few hours. He had to sleep, after all. Nobody would bother him until it hit the 5 hour mark, and he'd honestly needed to get away for a while, to at least calm the nerves and calm the mechanical screams that hit his senses like a goddamn plank to the side of his head. Not enough that he'd be a useless sack of shit, but enough that he could let a little piece of silence slip in. Let him think. All the noise in his head was making it difficult to think.
He lit it, took it in, in his other hand an actual cigarette to drown the smell out. Just long enough to clear his head was all he needed.
WHERE: The mobile, temporary Mayoral office, now located idk the subway tunnel underneath what used to be City Hall???
WHEN:Backdated to 01/05/2013, probably closer to 10 pm.
WARNINGS: Drug use.
SUMMARY: He didn't think he'd be caught.
FORMAT: Paragraph.
Mitch's office kept having to move. After losing not just City Hall, but then Gracie Mansion and the rest of the possible places to hole up, things were getting a bit old. Mitchell, of course, mourned a little differently than anyone else could. He didn't worry as much about the people who'd already been killed in whatever disaster or the other over the past week; recognizing in his usual, cold fashion that this was inevitable. Oh, he was sad, but people were people. What he really mourned, predictably, was the architecture. Over two hundred years of building something beautiful, over and over her, spires of metal, theaters, homes, and any number of architectural marvels. He couldn't help it, honestly, knowing that they were gone to the entire world, that quickly. Just like before, when he'd watched the storming of Baghdad, he hadn't been as sad about the war as he was their buildings.
They had their own souls, after all. It was like losing a mentor, or maybe an older friend. He'd felt greater sorrows, but watching New York City fall apart before his eyes -- and dammit he could think of it like that, and not the goddamn City for once -- it was depressing. If he'd been anyone else, or someone who wasn't as focused on survival as Mitch was, he might have just sat down, and waited. It was looking more and more inevitable, certain death, or something like that. Things kept getting more and more eerie, and while he was used to some serious bullshit, nothing like this even came close. Sure, he'd had a penchant for sci fi, and understood goddamn Crisis, but that didn't make this easier to handle. Hell, even the Old Bitch was gone, and there was an odd pang at that thought. They'd been together a long time, he and that goddamn bridge, and even if it wasn't a place he wanted to be near ever again, there was a solidarity that he felt with the damn thing.
He'd honestly thought that a few hours of "sleep" was going to be the close he was going to get to forgetting about it. Mitchell was sleeping less than normal, practically slipping at the seams at time, working day and night, coordinating where and when he could, already burnt through three times his usual cigarette intake. Not healthy for a guy who normally kept his smoking to only the most stressful of situations.
Pretty much a good chunk of City Hall was elsewhere, spread out to make sure they weren't all in one place. They were still in and out, for sure, but at least nobody was housed in this one place. Mitch was, however, and at least it was fortifiable to keep him somewhat safe, although who knew how long that would last? He'd taken to sleeping close to the "office", having appropriated one room for himself, to "sleep", but mostly to sit back there and just breathe. Try for some TM that didn't quite hit the right spot, or open up the small vent he'd found, and pull something out of his pocket, if he knew he'd have a few hours. He had to sleep, after all. Nobody would bother him until it hit the 5 hour mark, and he'd honestly needed to get away for a while, to at least calm the nerves and calm the mechanical screams that hit his senses like a goddamn plank to the side of his head. Not enough that he'd be a useless sack of shit, but enough that he could let a little piece of silence slip in. Let him think. All the noise in his head was making it difficult to think.
He lit it, took it in, in his other hand an actual cigarette to drown the smell out. Just long enough to clear his head was all he needed.
no subject
Anyway, he was more worried about how Mitchell Hundred the man was holding up under all of this crap, since he could see him splitting at the seams. Sometimes he thought the pressure was the only thing actually keeping him together. Bradbury could only do so much for other people, and at some point he'd had to concede that his security team was probably better off out and trying to contribute to the efforts to evacuate anyone who hadn't already run screaming for the hills.
Which meant, most of the time, he was the only one on the Mayor's security detail. Mitch wasn't his only priority, but he was certainly the most immediate one. Bradbury worried about Terry, too, but Terry at least was immortal and less likely to kill himself with trying to patch up a sinking ship. Bradbury would have to hope that the kid could handle whatever came his way, and he trusted that if he needed something, he'd actually call.
The tunnels weren't the most ideal place to hole up, but a better option than being out in the open. With blankets and extra layers of clothes, it could be downright cozy - so of course, Mitch didn't seem to think he needed them. Typical. Which was why, without so much as a by-your-leave, he was stepping through to Mitch's makeshift room without announcing himself, ass-ugly Christmas sweater he'd scavenged from who-knew-wear slung over his arm, fully prepared to brandish it at him.
"Hey, boss, I told you--"
Bradbury stopped dead.
no subject
He just needed the space to think. He needed quiet and it was hard with the panic and broken machines, or broken systems and loops. Machines were calling out for their master units, slaves pinging into nothing, and even higher-functioning machines were reaching out to nothing. Nobody else could hear it, but there was panic on a whole other level than what people could see or hear. Chaos always operated on more levels than anyone could really comprehend. Multi-layered and practically orderly in the fact that it was predictable.
What Mitch hadn't expected, was to be bothered by Bradbury. Rick fucking Bradbury who often found himself compromising Mitch in some way, finding himself in places that he shouldn't be with Mitchell, or forcing his way in -- stumbling his way in, really -- and then forcing Mitchell to deal with it. He wasn't resentful, Bradbury was Bradbury, and one of his best resources -- hell, even a friend. When Mitchell allowed himself to think along those lines, but he worked very hard not to, taking steps down that path led to inevitable troubles.
"Br--" he stopped, and remembered what he was doing. "--adbury, the fuck are you doing?" not too indignant, but certainly cautious. Motherfucker.
It wasn't like he could explain away what he was doing. He wasn't exactly going to be able to make up a reasonable excuse for smoking marijuana. Unless he went the medicinal route, and that wasn't exactly going to get him floating. He'd already been up shit creek without a paddle, but this was closer to losing the goddamn boat too.
no subject
Something about opposites attracting, and all that. Besides, for all that he complicated Mitch's life, he made up for it in spades every other way he could. Mitch knew Bradbury had his back -- and that he'd keep his secrets to the death, if he had to.
Which was why, when Mitch stared back at him, Bradbury seriously considered the possibility of simply stepping out of the room and never bringing up the subject again. He was still standing in the doorway, or what passed for it, and he found himself thinking it could be some kind of fucked-up metaphor for their friendship. Bradbury was always standing in the doorway, always looking in, on the cusp of something he didn't quite understand while clutching an ugly sweater in his hands.
Always the one who feigned ignorance, when he caught a glimpse of something he wasn't supposed to. It was that thought more than anything else that impelled him to move forward, twitching the door shut behind him and stepping over to Mitch with a look of wry amusement.
"Ain't that my line?" A beat, and then: "Guess you were more stressed than I thought."
no subject
He kept staring. Not really quite sure what to say.
Because what did you say to your former friend about your occasional drug-use habit when you were in public service like he was? If he'd still been a civil engineer, it'd be nothing, just the usual, ordinary grind. Just something that he didn't talk about, but if it was found out? Oh well -- as long as it wasn't his bosses. But the trouble with politics was anything, any sign or show of weakness was a new achilles heel. He'd learned it readily and easily. Hell, even admitting to smoking once was enough. He'd been lambasted for ages for that one, and he'd had to backpedal faster than Kerry in 04.
He didn't pull the joint back up to his mouth again, feeling a pang for the money down the drain as it burned in his fingers. "Did you need something?" he asked, his voice taking on the slightest of edges. If he were less impaired, he might have felt bad. The fact of the matter was, Bradbury was impeding on a near-sacrosanct ritual, something to shut it all out, and let it lie.
At least pull back enough to remember that he was a sane human being, and that there wasn't something else that was ever-present on his mind to occupy it. That there wasn't something that he needed to do, even if he tried to pretend that it wasn't out there -- waiting.
no subject
Apparently not deterrent enough.
"You're wasting it," he pointed out instead of answering the question, watching the smoke lazily curling off the cherry. He didn't know where Mitch had gotten it, and he honestly didn't care. Instead, he dragged the only other chair in the room over and sat in it backwards, facing Mitch, fingers beckoning for the joint still in the Mayor's fingers while he used the ugly sweater as a pillow on the hard metal.
"Pass it here."
no subject
Bradbury couldn't understand, the things he had to listen to day in, and day out. Petty problems were nothing, compared to the screeches and processes of every machine in earshot, and earshot was something wholly different to him, than anyone else. Nobody else knew how much he had to listen to. Like being caught in the center of New York City, and everyone in the city was screaming at the top of their lungs. And then some.
He watched, carefully, but his fingers held out the slowly bleeding out joint, handing it over.
Hell, if this was the end of the world, for once, he wasn't alone for it.
He'd honestly thought that was how he'd spend the apocalypse. By himself. He'd never even considered that it would be Bradbury he'd see the end of the world with, that was for sure. After everything he'd done, he'd expected to go out fighting.
Not smoking a joint and trying not to think about the one he was likely to go back to.
no subject
He couldn't say he remembered the last time he'd done something like this. Sometime after he got out of the corps, but probably before he became a cop, something to cope. A few times before that, too, while he was on leave, and in high school. Nothing that ever became a habit. He could see the appeal, he guessed, but alcohol was easier to get his hands on and wasn't technically illegal, so whenever he found himself in need of any numbing, it always made sense to go for that first.
Not for Mitch, obviously. As he inhaled, feeling the burn all the way down, he took the opportunity to wonder when exactly Mitch had started up this little recreational activity, and how exactly Bradbury had managed to miss it.
Then again, wasn't that the story of his life? He missed everything, no matter how hard he looked at it, and even looking at Mitch's expression now, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be seeing. Bradbury held in his breath as long as he could, still holding the joint between his fingers, trying to judge how long Mitch had been at it by how far it had burned down.
When he finally spoke, wisps of smoke curled out of the corners of his lips.
"So this is a lot more fucked up for you than it is for the rest of us, huh?"
no subject
He needed that now, but still, the more the silence wore on, with another person in his space while he was there -- it wasn't the same. It felt awkward, and he wanted to shoo Bradbury out, but he knew, he knew he couldn't do that. Not with him here, smoking his fucking weed, and pretending that there wasn't literally hell happening right above them.
"I don't know, it's not a fucked-up competition. I'm pretty sure it's fucked up for everyone." he kept his voice level, barely giving Bradbury a glance. He'd once told Wylie that Tragedy wasn't a competition, he'd told Wylie once. It wasn't. He didn't care if anyone had it worse, or if he had it worse. Focusing on the misery didn't solve problems. He didn't like focusing on how Bad it was, and instead focused on how to fix it.
no subject
Thinking about this kind of thing wasn't part of his job, but it was hard not to, now. How were you supposed to guard someone against the world crashing down around your ears, was what he wanted to know. It was selfish, sure, but it was a goal that was comparatively doable instead of stopping ... whatever this was. The little tricks you did to keep everything manageable, right?
Like smoking a joint, just to keep everything a little more manageable. He took another slow drag, longer this time, before waving it in the air, wafting smoke. "You know this could end your career." Not a question, just a conversational statement of fact.
no subject
"I'm pretty sure whatever's going on outside is ending it for me," was his final reply, lips flat, mouth hard. Green eyes flicked, in an odd, slowed pattern. Normally Mitchell was too hyper, eyes tracking things and voices that nobody could see -- and with his powers off and mind alert -- he generally went into doubletime, looking and listening for things that weren't there, too used to his powers now to do anything but cope.
Like this? Everything was slowed, Mitchell was borderline normal like this. His head moved at a normal pace -- his thoughts slowed to normal. No less dangerous -- still calculating -- but that almost inhuman track of thought and mind was gone -- or really, just buried. Laying dormant for a while, and he goddamn well needed that.
no subject
If things had come to that, maybe it really was the end of the world. He took it in, the way Mitch didn't seem nearly as twitchy as he usually did, something in him slowing down from the pace he normally drove himself at. He didn't know if he liked it -- he was always on Mitch's back to slow down, but he didn't think he liked that this was what it took to get him to give himself a break, for once.
"As long as it helps, I'm all for it." There was something on the edge of Mitch's sleeve -- ash or hair or something, he wasn't sure, but he didn't see much reason to resist the impulse to lean over and brush his fingers over it, carefully, cleaning it off. "I ain't gonna judge. You're dealing with enough shit to drive anyone crazy."
So was Mitch lucky or unlucky that he wasn't crazy already, he wondered?