GOTTA CATCH (EM) ALL

[hobocop]

WHO: Harry Du Bois | OTA | Plus some closed stuff
WHAT: I MEAN, a bunch of stuff. Consider this a catch-all
WHERE: Aaaall across Dualis
WHEN: Feb, possibly stretching into March
WARNINGS: The usual stuff with Harry, so alcoholism for sure, but will add as needed!

[Some open top levels will be thrown within sometime this weekend! love u, bye xoxox]

Comments

PAWN STARS | Tidus and Duke

[hobocop]

[It was already dark when Harry stepped out from the gates of the Dualis Central Zoo to begin that daily end-of-shift hike back towards the dorms. It was darker still when the usual creeping voice slid its fingers across his skull, suggesting a quick detour. A very predictable detour — it's one he makes every other day, after all.

Somehow, though — be it from his volition kicking in just in time, or the vague pang of loneliness that comes with a silent stomp home — he reaches for his phone, instead. Stares at it with a kind of guilty contemplation. He had promised, right?

Which is how he finds himself marching the backstreets of the city with Tidus in tow, head twitching this way and that while he... fails to actually locate the pawn-shop.]

Guy's kinda like, uh... half-cat, I guess? [A beat. Maybe that's not a cool thing to say.] It's so close. Trust me.

[He'd seem a lot more confident if it weren't for the way his eyes are raking each shop sign and window, desperate for some familiar landmark.]

Any second now.

[And then he does that thing again. You know, that thing where he just suddenly stops what's practically a jog by freezing and locking his knees in place. It can't be good for his joints.]

Isolated Pawn!

[He practically crows it, thoroughly delighted with himself.]

The Litany of Contact Mike | OTA, in some bar some evening

[hobocop]

[There was a point during the evening where Harry lost track. Of multiple things, actually. Of how much he'd drunk already, of how long he's been sat there, perched on a bar-stool... even of who he was talking to. All he knows, is at some point, something was said, and now he's in the middle of what constitutes a very impassioned rant.

Despite the stumbling and the slurring crawling over his words, muddling them, he has every intention of finishing it.]

S'like... the most basic sporting principal.

[He pauses just long enough to drain the beer bottle he was enthusiastically gesticulating with. Rather than putting it down again, he uses it to point directly at the poor recipient of his current diatribe. A glare follows the shaky line of it, like he really wants whatever point he's making to stick.]

Contact Mike, he, uh, he rose from the slums of Saint-Batiste — [An upswing of the bottle, like it's a little plane] — straight to the top of the boxing world. Guy overcame adversity — [A firm tap on the bar with his free hand. Physical punctuation.] — Poverty. [Another loud tap.] And, uh... [He hesitates (like he's maybe struggling coming up with something for that rule of three) before ending with a strong:] And serious brain trauma.

So, what I'm saying is...

[Fuck, what is he saying? Why's he talking about Mike again? Did they bring him up?

RHETORIC — Who knows? Mystery of the century! Let's just end strong and with confidence, okay?

Harry takes a deep, steadying breath and leans forward, expression locking down into something serious.]

The real fight... is for the right attitude.

Rooftop refuge | OTA

[hobocop]

[Ever since the island, Harry's been having that dream again — the one everyone warned him about. That one. It's not every night and it isn't the same every time, either, but it's clear now it's not a simple case of drowning it away. He's stuck revisiting that loop again and again, a skipping record with half the details still missing, and he has to learn to live with it.

And most days, he does. He wakes up seven thirty sharp (as he always does) and he drags himself out of those sweat-soaked sheets. The infernal engine roars on.

Only this time, it's not seven thirty. This time, it's barely morning. And rather than the bathroom, or the kitchen, he finds himself padding out of his room and making the slow ascent to the roof. The option is actually there now that the wound on his leg could be classified as a bullet scar, instead.

He takes a long drag from his cigarette and sets his elbow against the edge of the balcony, shoulders drooping downwards like the rest of his rapidly aging visage. He had the decency to drag a pair of pants on, and the coat wrapped around his torso is stopping the wind biting too badly, but... well, it's bracing up here, if nothing else. He can see the scope of the city.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — The Night Canvas, sprawling.

God, but he can be a pretentious prick.

PERCEPTION — Footsteps. A faint rattle and a click.

Harry rubs the back of his head, glancing over towards the door. He stares for a moment, before giving something between a wave and a salute.]

Don't mind me.

[Reaching into his coat pocket for a moment, he finds the crumpled cigarette packet he'd only just set back there. He holds it out. Rucks his eyebrows up while a white cloud of smoke disappears into his mouth.]