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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.