Supply runs were Amaka’s third favorite activity in the world. There were few things better than watching a carefully executed plan go into motion. The back and forth across thousands of miles was unlike anything else. After hours of poring over targets and coordinating drops, the smooth, Rube Goldberg-esque machinations of acquisition were practically orgasmic. Throw in some explosions and good steaks and Amaka could have died happy.
“Remember, if shit goes south—“
“We split and go to the most inaccessible places we can think of in rapid succession, I know how this works Bryce,” Amaka stifled a yawn, stretching out her back as long as possible. They had half an hour to bust a bank, a food transports, and a warehouse for medical supplies. Seven of them stood in a cramped one room shack, surrounding a large table with various maps strewn across it. A fan turned idly overhead. Outside, a storm howled, waves crashing in the distance.
Amaka had the joy of handling the food transport with a dude so skinny she thought he might blow away in a stiff breeze. He pulled his mask down over his face and wispy beard. Her black eyes glanced to her watch. Thirty seconds. She ran a freckled hand through her black hair, pulling it back into a tiny ponytail at the back of her head.
“We should be clear,” Bryce, a dark sinned man built like a small tank, reassured the six of them. “But you all know how fast Paladins can work. If you even think you see those fuckers, I want you gone. We can always make another run.”
Amaka squished her face beneath the black wool of her mask. She adjusted her gloves. Bouncing back and forth, she punched her partners (Harry? Harold? Hank? Whatever) shoulder with a grin. Not that he could see her face, but whatever.
“C’mon buddy. It’ll be fun.”
“Ten seconds!” Bryce called. She tensed, a ball of pure energy— “Now!”
She Jumped. The rush was instantaneous, euphoria flooding her as space bent to her whims. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she landed. It was almost too easy—the warehouse was busy, as expected, their truck finishing loading. She could see the driver, signing off on paperwork. A pop—skinny bro landed next to her, crouched behind the warehouse door. Carefully, they flitted from point to point, jumping constantly, dancing through the crowd, toppling crates and causing mayhem as they went. Their driver they shadowed, waiting—he was heading to the truck. Amaka found herself on the roof of the warehouse, peeking out and watching. Several minutes passed before the truck finally began to pull out. It jerked to the left suddenly—skinny kid must have dealt with the driver. She Jumped in, scrambling towards the driver’s seat. She’d barely gotten settled when the skinny bastard popped into existence, looking frazzled.
“Shit, I thee he bro my noze,” he had pulled his mask up to stem the bleeding, releasing a stream of profanity. Amaka rolled her eyes, reaching out to smack him again.
“Hey! We’ve gotta move. You up to this?”
“Yeahyeah get off mah nuts,” he grumbled, wiping his hands on his pants. Amaka cringed when he gripped her hand, but focused on the wheel, on the pull.
Jumping with someone else was easily her least favorite thing. Especially when Jumping a 35 ton hunk of metal. It was so much slower, a grinding that echoed through every inch of her. She could taste copper in her mouth. Pressure built in her head, screaming for release.
And then suddenly, they had landed. Air rushed back into her lungs. Amaka coughed violently, slumping over the wheel of the truck. She peered up to her right—shit, the kid was fucking twitching—she grabbed his arm and twisted, landing outside the truck in a massive field, stumbling as he slumped on top of her. Brilliant. She looked to their company, a dude who looked like he ate steroids for breakfast and a woman whose presence made her want to projectile vomit. Or maybe that was the Jump. Whatever.
“You’re late,” the tall, thin woman informed her, violently pink curls peeking out from beneath her mask. Amaka rolled her eyes.
“Driver was taking his sweet time. It’s all yours,” Bitch, she couldn’t help but add internally. She shook the kid dozing against her. Goddamn Jump fog. He shook his head slowly, groaning, and Amaka was at least relieved that he wasn’t dead.
“Gotta move, kiddo. You know where you’re going?”
“I thee so.”
“Good enough for me,” Amaka ripped off her mask as she sprinted, the familiar twist of reality pulling her to an alleyway in Paris. Another Jump—Berlin—another—Sydney—finally, she landed in Vegas. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck. The alleyway was deserted, echoing with the roar of passing traffic. She breathed deep, allowing herself a brief respite as she leaned against the wall. Neither hide nor hair of Paladins on their run—hopefully the others would be as lucky. Her watch informed her that it was ten thirty six PM. The truck should be in Tibet by now, ready to make the final leg of the journey to the island where goods would be unloaded and stored for later distribution. Every year it seemed there were more of them to feed and shelter. If it kept up, they’d be making supply runs every week soon enough. And each run just meant another chance to get caught, even with their crazy teleportation abilities.
Amaka sighed, running a hand through her black locks and releasing them from the hairband. Shaking her hair out, she made her way out of the alley, adjusting her leather jacket. Her boots scuffed the pavement as she walked, dusting off foreign dirt from her jeans. The streets were packed, crowds buffeting about from place to place. She let herself fade into the crowd until she found some place familiar. She yearned to Jump, but there was no way it could be safe at the moment. Paladins were annoyingly good at finding them, the rat bastards.
Her memory served her well as she picked her way across town, leading her to the Nine Fine Irishmen. It was packed, as per usual, but she managed to squeeze her way into the bar. Flashing a grin, she leaned in,
“Long Island, yeah?”
She was soon rewarded with her well-deserved drink. The bartender seemed plenty pleased by the fifty she dropped and her cheery wink. It had been too long since she had left her hidey hole and let loose. Besides, what was the point in her little hoard of cash if she never got to use it? Amaka cast her gaze about the bar. Was it too much to hope for a source of entertainment? Probably.
El Taco Taco
Member
Schist happens.
STATUS: 'I know the Goliath Fucking Bird-Eating Spider can't fly because if it could, it would have a different name entirely. We would call it "sir" because it would be the dominant species on the planet.' 8 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 28 days ago
- Old Guild Username: El Taco Taco
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
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TheDookieNut,
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8 yrs ago
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'I know the Goliath Fucking Bird-Eating Spider can't fly because if it could, it would have a different name entirely. We would call it "sir" because it would be the dominant species on the planet.'
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8 yrs ago
'There is no word in the English language for the feeling someone gets when they suddenly realize they're standing next to an unholy monster impersonating a human. Monstralization, maybe?'
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8 yrs ago
'If Zoey Ashe had known she was being stalked by a man who intended to kill her and then slowly eat her bones, she would've worried more about that and less about getting her cat off the roof.'
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9 yrs ago
"And watch out for Molly. See if she does anything unusual. There’s something I don’t trust about the way she exploded and then came back from the dead like that."
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9 yrs ago
"We're talking about a tentacled flying lamp fucker, Dave. What are you prepared to call unlikely?"
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Bio
"OK, I've just about had my FILL of riddle-asking, quest-assigning, insult-throwing, pun-hurling, hostage-taking, iron-mongering, smart-arsed fools, freaks, and felons that continually test my will, mettle, strength, intelligence, and most of all, patience! If you've got a straight answer ANYWHERE in that bent little head of yours, I want to hear it pretty damn quick or I'm going to take a large blunt object roughly the size of Elminster AND his hat, and stuff it lengthwise into a crevice of your being so seldom seen that even the denizens of the nine hells themselves wouldn't touch it with a twenty-foot rusty halberd! Have I MADE myself perfectly CLEAR?!" - CHARNAME, Baldur's Gate
Most Recent Posts
Totes understandable!
I swear, my next few posts will be less HURRRR WALL OF TEXTy.
I swear, my next few posts will be less HURRRR WALL OF TEXTy.
[[ Aghhh I was halfway through this when my laptop died and I forgot to save it… curse you aqua scuuuuuum ]]
Victoire had never been so grateful for wine. It flowed freely among her family, and the more they drank, the less attention they paid to her. Her Uncle Charlie was booming a fantastic story about his recent encounter with a Welsh Green family pod, gesticulating wildly as he enthralled their family with his mad adventures. She felt a wistful pang of longing at how happy he seemed, assuring her cousin Molly that no, the burn he’d got was really nothing and it had been worth it to help the juvenile dragon escape a trap. As a child, Uncle Charlie’s stories had always been her favorite. He’d been so passionate, so alive when he talked of dragons. She could only dream of feeling the same love for healing.
She dropped her gaze to her wine glass, polishing it off. Now was not the time for maudlin thoughts. Her family had a strange way of knowing when things were wrong and an absolute relentless need to fix things. The Weasley clan operated under the idea that anything could be solved with enough pushing and food, neither of which appealed to her at the moment. She’d made a valiant effort, but her nerves had twisted her stomach into a ball of snakes.
“You alright?” She felt her father’s words more than heard them. His hand dropped to the one in her lap, squeezing it affectionately. She clung to his calloused palm desperately, leaning against him for a long moment. Victoire breathed him in, all spice and scotch. It settled the violent churning in her stomach, slowing the fluttering of her pulse in her wrists. Her father could make anything better, of that she was certain. He’d never pushed anything on her, had simply let her make her choices and leant an ear and a shoulder to cry on whenever she’d made a mess of things. She felt him drop a kiss to the top of her head and she squeezed her eyes shut. For a moment, she could pretend everything was wonderful.
“Just tired,” she murmured finally. Everything in her protested at that—there was so much more to it, but this wasn’t the time nor the place. She hated lying to her family. Especially to her father. It was pointless anyways; he could read her like no other. The look in his eyes affirmed her suspicions, but he smiled kindly, squeezing her hand once more before releasing it.
“You know where to find me,” he assured her and she could only smile. The guilt crashed over her again, and it was a struggle to breathe.
Dinner was winding down. Her father was engaged in conversation by her Uncle Ron, and Louis was locked in earnest discussion with her cousin Molly about Quidditch. Their table was out of wine, and Victoire excused herself as quietly as she could manage. No one looked twice as she slipped towards an empty table. Someone had put Celestina Warbeck on the wireless, horns and her grandstanding voice filling the tent. Victoire privately amused herself by studying her family as she refilled her wine glass, her grandfather and several of her uncles looking rather worn. Little Lily Luna was dancing with her father. Dominique was laughing and dragging Louis out to the floor, and Victoire was temporarily stunned by the radiance of her siblings. They’d taken after their mother far more than she had, all white blonde hair and dazzling charm. She busied herself with her wine, trying not to let her envy get the best of her.
She was hyperaware of Teddy’s movements throughout the tent, no matter how she tried to distract herself. As if by imperius, her eyes kept tracking him, sliding in his general direction. He was so at ease here, and it was impossible to stop the memories, seeing him in the thick of her family. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t loved him, in one fashion or another. As a child, she’d admired his fearlessness. Being around Teddy had made it easier to be brave, and she’d followed him into all sorts of mischief, whether it was exploring the beaches by Shell Cottage or secret passageways at Hogwarts. It had been so easy to fall in love with him. He’d been so patient with her, whether she was neurotically studying for an exam or trying to eke out a win in whatever stupid competition she’d found herself in. Victoire had never laughed as much as she had with him. She could never have imagined life without Teddy; the idea that she would be the one to cut him out would have been pure madness to contemplate.
But she had. She’d burned everything between them with a lash of temper, drowning in the terror of her own inadequacy. She’d never had a chance to breathe, to be alone, and she was horrified at the idea of never being anything. Victoire had no idea who she was, what she really wanted, and she’d capitulated to the urgings of her family. Healing was such a good, stable life, they’d assured her. With marks like hers, she’d be daft not to take the offer, not to study at the finest hospital in Europe. How could she defy their advice when she didn’t know what she wanted?
And Teddy—glorious, wonderful Teddy—had been so patient with her, so content to let her figure it out, and she’d been terrified of failing him. He was so good and kind, she didn’t doubt that he would have supported her in anything, but she couldn’t drag him with her into the mess of her life. Victoire couldn’t let him be lost with her, couldn’t bear the idea of making him miserable as she stumbled her way through the misery of her training program into the utterly soul-crushing nights in the A&E.
Victoire shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. She’d gone maudlin there. She turned her gaze instead to the garden, where she spied Fred and Albus slipping off into the night, undoubtedly up to something. A shadow of what could only be a gnome toddled along the grass.
“Victoire,” she froze at the sound of his voice. Seeing him had been agonizing enough. After a long moment, she looked up at him, and it was impossible to breathe. Merlin, he had no right to be this captivating. She swallowed, her mouth having suddenly gone rather dry. “D’you want to dance?”
It was such a strange question. Two years of silence between them, and this was how it was broken? He looked so casual and it felt as if someone had plunged a hand into her chest and squeezed her heart. Two years. Of course he would have moved on. Teddy was resilient, not the sort of bloke who would be hung up on her. She’d been so cruel, so furious with everything, with her inability to know what she wanted or who she even was. She’d lashed out at him, had always known that he hadn’t deserved her wrath, but it had felt so good to indulge her fury.
She should say no. Just be polite and run and go home and never come back. He deserved her family far more than she did. But he was here and every inch of her skin ached to remember him. Victoire blamed the wine. She had always been good at blaming blameless things.
“I… yes,” she startled herself by accepting. It was a fantastically stupid idea. She needed to leave, before she mucked things up more. Touching Teddy would undoubtedly lead to something awful. But he was here and she’d never been good at refusing him. She’d have followed him anywhere. It felt like something else was piloting her body, raising her from her seat. Victoire yearned to touch him again, but she had the mad feeling that he would disappear, and she hesitated.
Victoire had never been so grateful for wine. It flowed freely among her family, and the more they drank, the less attention they paid to her. Her Uncle Charlie was booming a fantastic story about his recent encounter with a Welsh Green family pod, gesticulating wildly as he enthralled their family with his mad adventures. She felt a wistful pang of longing at how happy he seemed, assuring her cousin Molly that no, the burn he’d got was really nothing and it had been worth it to help the juvenile dragon escape a trap. As a child, Uncle Charlie’s stories had always been her favorite. He’d been so passionate, so alive when he talked of dragons. She could only dream of feeling the same love for healing.
She dropped her gaze to her wine glass, polishing it off. Now was not the time for maudlin thoughts. Her family had a strange way of knowing when things were wrong and an absolute relentless need to fix things. The Weasley clan operated under the idea that anything could be solved with enough pushing and food, neither of which appealed to her at the moment. She’d made a valiant effort, but her nerves had twisted her stomach into a ball of snakes.
“You alright?” She felt her father’s words more than heard them. His hand dropped to the one in her lap, squeezing it affectionately. She clung to his calloused palm desperately, leaning against him for a long moment. Victoire breathed him in, all spice and scotch. It settled the violent churning in her stomach, slowing the fluttering of her pulse in her wrists. Her father could make anything better, of that she was certain. He’d never pushed anything on her, had simply let her make her choices and leant an ear and a shoulder to cry on whenever she’d made a mess of things. She felt him drop a kiss to the top of her head and she squeezed her eyes shut. For a moment, she could pretend everything was wonderful.
“Just tired,” she murmured finally. Everything in her protested at that—there was so much more to it, but this wasn’t the time nor the place. She hated lying to her family. Especially to her father. It was pointless anyways; he could read her like no other. The look in his eyes affirmed her suspicions, but he smiled kindly, squeezing her hand once more before releasing it.
“You know where to find me,” he assured her and she could only smile. The guilt crashed over her again, and it was a struggle to breathe.
Dinner was winding down. Her father was engaged in conversation by her Uncle Ron, and Louis was locked in earnest discussion with her cousin Molly about Quidditch. Their table was out of wine, and Victoire excused herself as quietly as she could manage. No one looked twice as she slipped towards an empty table. Someone had put Celestina Warbeck on the wireless, horns and her grandstanding voice filling the tent. Victoire privately amused herself by studying her family as she refilled her wine glass, her grandfather and several of her uncles looking rather worn. Little Lily Luna was dancing with her father. Dominique was laughing and dragging Louis out to the floor, and Victoire was temporarily stunned by the radiance of her siblings. They’d taken after their mother far more than she had, all white blonde hair and dazzling charm. She busied herself with her wine, trying not to let her envy get the best of her.
She was hyperaware of Teddy’s movements throughout the tent, no matter how she tried to distract herself. As if by imperius, her eyes kept tracking him, sliding in his general direction. He was so at ease here, and it was impossible to stop the memories, seeing him in the thick of her family. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t loved him, in one fashion or another. As a child, she’d admired his fearlessness. Being around Teddy had made it easier to be brave, and she’d followed him into all sorts of mischief, whether it was exploring the beaches by Shell Cottage or secret passageways at Hogwarts. It had been so easy to fall in love with him. He’d been so patient with her, whether she was neurotically studying for an exam or trying to eke out a win in whatever stupid competition she’d found herself in. Victoire had never laughed as much as she had with him. She could never have imagined life without Teddy; the idea that she would be the one to cut him out would have been pure madness to contemplate.
But she had. She’d burned everything between them with a lash of temper, drowning in the terror of her own inadequacy. She’d never had a chance to breathe, to be alone, and she was horrified at the idea of never being anything. Victoire had no idea who she was, what she really wanted, and she’d capitulated to the urgings of her family. Healing was such a good, stable life, they’d assured her. With marks like hers, she’d be daft not to take the offer, not to study at the finest hospital in Europe. How could she defy their advice when she didn’t know what she wanted?
And Teddy—glorious, wonderful Teddy—had been so patient with her, so content to let her figure it out, and she’d been terrified of failing him. He was so good and kind, she didn’t doubt that he would have supported her in anything, but she couldn’t drag him with her into the mess of her life. Victoire couldn’t let him be lost with her, couldn’t bear the idea of making him miserable as she stumbled her way through the misery of her training program into the utterly soul-crushing nights in the A&E.
Victoire shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. She’d gone maudlin there. She turned her gaze instead to the garden, where she spied Fred and Albus slipping off into the night, undoubtedly up to something. A shadow of what could only be a gnome toddled along the grass.
“Victoire,” she froze at the sound of his voice. Seeing him had been agonizing enough. After a long moment, she looked up at him, and it was impossible to breathe. Merlin, he had no right to be this captivating. She swallowed, her mouth having suddenly gone rather dry. “D’you want to dance?”
It was such a strange question. Two years of silence between them, and this was how it was broken? He looked so casual and it felt as if someone had plunged a hand into her chest and squeezed her heart. Two years. Of course he would have moved on. Teddy was resilient, not the sort of bloke who would be hung up on her. She’d been so cruel, so furious with everything, with her inability to know what she wanted or who she even was. She’d lashed out at him, had always known that he hadn’t deserved her wrath, but it had felt so good to indulge her fury.
She should say no. Just be polite and run and go home and never come back. He deserved her family far more than she did. But he was here and every inch of her skin ached to remember him. Victoire blamed the wine. She had always been good at blaming blameless things.
“I… yes,” she startled herself by accepting. It was a fantastically stupid idea. She needed to leave, before she mucked things up more. Touching Teddy would undoubtedly lead to something awful. But he was here and she’d never been good at refusing him. She’d have followed him anywhere. It felt like something else was piloting her body, raising her from her seat. Victoire yearned to touch him again, but she had the mad feeling that he would disappear, and she hesitated.
In
Taco's Taco Truck! [High Casual-Advanced, Ignore Post Count]
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12 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
You should play! It's an amazing universe. Borderlands 2 is straight up the funniest game I have ever played. I'm looking for someone familiar with the lore for that but I would LOVE a Jumpers RP. Jumpers could have been soooo good. The movie pretty much needed to be about Griffin, it would have been a billion times better. P:
HOKAY SO
I thought I'd at least post Katie before I scamper off to dinner. Then I'll scribble summat up for Krum c: Hopefully I'll get him posted tonight or tomorrow morning. Thanks for your patience!!
I thought I'd at least post Katie before I scamper off to dinner. Then I'll scribble summat up for Krum c: Hopefully I'll get him posted tonight or tomorrow morning. Thanks for your patience!!
May 25th, 2002
To say the mood in the room was electric was a gross understatement. In four years of professional Quidditch, Katie Bell had never experienced anything quite like this. Nearly two hundred witches and wizards had packed into the brightly decorated offices of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. It was absolute chaos—Katie could barely move without elbowing another body, and sheer volume of the crowd nearly put a stadium to shame. The radio hummed with mindless chatter, magically amplified to echo throughout the cramped offices. Firewhisky flowed freely. It seemed every ten minutes there was a new call for toasts, celebrating various witches and wizards who had worked to make everything possible and, of course, their glorious team.
Katie squeezed through the crowd, flashing her teeth in tight smiles as she maneuvered the clusterfuck. A renewed call for whisky echoed throughout the cramped quarters. Katie watched with some interest as Ragmar Dorkins went arse over teakettle over a table attempting to fetch a bottle. She set off again, a bounce in her step. It didn’t quite make up for the ’99 Match of Which We Do Not Speak, but it helped.
“Alicia!” She called out, finally catching sight of her quarry. The dark haired witch turned and brightened immediately, waving and nearly smacking a bloke in the face. Katie’s grin widened as she began pushing her way over to the slight witch, capturing her in a tight hug. She laughed breathlessly, dropping her arm around the shorter woman’s shoulder and shouting to be heard above the racket,
“This is mental!”
“I know! It’s happening!” Alicia looked about ready to implode with excitement, ‘woo’ing as another cry of delight spread through the office. “Merlin’s tits, I almost didn’t think we’d pull it off, but we got all the goddamned pitches squared away and just, ahh! It’s happening! It’s real! KATIE!”
Katie laughed again, stumbling as her rather sloshed friend threw her arms in the air in excitement.
“Did you ever think, back at Hogwarts, that one day you’d be playing for goddamn ENGLAND?”
Truthfully, no she hadn’t, but Katie only grinned and intercepted the shot glass being passed towards her childhood friend. She threw it back, cherishing the bite and the burn.
“Never doubted it—“
“It’s time!” Someone shouted, and the office exploded into a series of shouts. Alicia let loose her most impressive woo yet. Katie surveyed the crowd, practically bouncing in place. For two years, she had trained and fought and played and while she’d never given it anything less than her all, she’d had the strangest feeling that it was all a dream. They’d triumphed in their group, against all odds, and managed to earn their place at a chance for that glorious cup, but even then it hadn’t seemed real. Being here, in the Ministry, surrounded by the men and women who were making it all happen, her teammates scattered throughout the office… for the first time, it felt tangible. The World Cup was only a month away from starting and somehow, she was starting. It was pure madness.
The radio blared to life, and Katie couldn’t help but grin when she recognized Lee Jordan’s voice.
”Greetings Quidditch fans! I’m Lee Jordan with the WWN, currently at a super-secret squirrel facility off the coast of a large island that rhymes with Shmiceland,. The IQA officials are just about ready to begin the draw for the knockout round for the 2002 Quidditch World Cup!”
Lee’s next words were drowned up by an uproar in the office, hearty applause and cheers nearly deafening Katie. Alicia squealed in delight, throwing her arms around Katie even tighter. Katie couldn’t hear anything the tiny witch was saying, but she grinned nonetheless. Someone managed to shush the crowd.
”…secrecy is, of course, paramount to help safeguard against tampering of the draw… ah, ladies and gentleman, it looks like the first draw is ready to begin! We’ve got the IQA official—Merlin’s beard that’s one hell of a mustache—and it’s Brazil! Brazil versus… Norway!”
Katie watched as Dennis Creevey directed his wand to a large board. Two large flags blossomed on its surface, billowing in an imaginary wind, forming the first bracket. She could scarcely breathe. Merlin, it was happening.
”…looks a tough match there…alright, next we have…. IRELAND! Ireland will be facing off against…. Oh, looks like, yes, Ireland versus China!”
It continued. Argentina and Moldova promised a monstrosity of a match. Bulgaria and Japan, Poland and New Zealand…
”Jamaica will be going toe to toe with… IT’S OFFICIAL, JAMAICA VERSUS ENGLAND!”
Anything else Lee said was drowned out in a pure roar from the office. Alicia dragged Katie into a hug that she feared might actually crack her ribs. All pretense of listening to the WWN dropped. Creevey called for order, looking beleaguered, but no one could bother listening. Katie was swept up in the crowd, buoyed towards the team by the mass of people. She collided roughly into Indira Choudry, but then they were hugging and cheering.
“We’re all going to the Three Broomsticks after,” she barely heard Indira over the crowd, even standing right next to each other. Katie ignored the way her stomach clenched at the mention of the pub and, in a fit of stupidity, ‘woo’ed herself as a form of assent.
It took nearly two and a half hours to escape the offices. There were more toasts and the matter of the press. Katie thought she might never see properly again after the blinding flashes of twelve million cameras. Positioned between the team manager and Indira, Katie managed to avoid causing any trouble for the entirety of the mob. She was rather impressed with herself. She hadn’t even hexed the reporter who’d asked about the Montrose Incident.
Katie had never been gladder to be free of cameramen. Releasing a whoop of exhilaration, she leapt onto Denison’s back. He staggered under her for a moment, before caving to her mad impulses and hitching her up. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, her grin already half-manic. She wanted to run until her muscles gave in, drink until she couldn’t see straight, start a fight, stumble into someone’s bed, anything that would sate the itch crawling along her spine.
“You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you Bell?” Denison deadpanned. Katie placed a hand to her chest in mock offence. She noticed that he had yet to drop her. And was that a grin she spied? Oh yes. Katie looked forward to seeing their ever so straight laced Keeper let loose a little. They’d only been playing together for the past two years, on and off as players competed for those coveted starting positions. In all that time, she had yet to see Denison anything less than composed and focused. She meant to change that. The rest of the team was finally joining them, escaping the clusterfuck of reporters and cameras.
“Frisby! I just… I can’t believe you even have to ask. Of course I’m going to do something stupid.”
To say the mood in the room was electric was a gross understatement. In four years of professional Quidditch, Katie Bell had never experienced anything quite like this. Nearly two hundred witches and wizards had packed into the brightly decorated offices of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. It was absolute chaos—Katie could barely move without elbowing another body, and sheer volume of the crowd nearly put a stadium to shame. The radio hummed with mindless chatter, magically amplified to echo throughout the cramped offices. Firewhisky flowed freely. It seemed every ten minutes there was a new call for toasts, celebrating various witches and wizards who had worked to make everything possible and, of course, their glorious team.
Katie squeezed through the crowd, flashing her teeth in tight smiles as she maneuvered the clusterfuck. A renewed call for whisky echoed throughout the cramped quarters. Katie watched with some interest as Ragmar Dorkins went arse over teakettle over a table attempting to fetch a bottle. She set off again, a bounce in her step. It didn’t quite make up for the ’99 Match of Which We Do Not Speak, but it helped.
“Alicia!” She called out, finally catching sight of her quarry. The dark haired witch turned and brightened immediately, waving and nearly smacking a bloke in the face. Katie’s grin widened as she began pushing her way over to the slight witch, capturing her in a tight hug. She laughed breathlessly, dropping her arm around the shorter woman’s shoulder and shouting to be heard above the racket,
“This is mental!”
“I know! It’s happening!” Alicia looked about ready to implode with excitement, ‘woo’ing as another cry of delight spread through the office. “Merlin’s tits, I almost didn’t think we’d pull it off, but we got all the goddamned pitches squared away and just, ahh! It’s happening! It’s real! KATIE!”
Katie laughed again, stumbling as her rather sloshed friend threw her arms in the air in excitement.
“Did you ever think, back at Hogwarts, that one day you’d be playing for goddamn ENGLAND?”
Truthfully, no she hadn’t, but Katie only grinned and intercepted the shot glass being passed towards her childhood friend. She threw it back, cherishing the bite and the burn.
“Never doubted it—“
“It’s time!” Someone shouted, and the office exploded into a series of shouts. Alicia let loose her most impressive woo yet. Katie surveyed the crowd, practically bouncing in place. For two years, she had trained and fought and played and while she’d never given it anything less than her all, she’d had the strangest feeling that it was all a dream. They’d triumphed in their group, against all odds, and managed to earn their place at a chance for that glorious cup, but even then it hadn’t seemed real. Being here, in the Ministry, surrounded by the men and women who were making it all happen, her teammates scattered throughout the office… for the first time, it felt tangible. The World Cup was only a month away from starting and somehow, she was starting. It was pure madness.
The radio blared to life, and Katie couldn’t help but grin when she recognized Lee Jordan’s voice.
”Greetings Quidditch fans! I’m Lee Jordan with the WWN, currently at a super-secret squirrel facility off the coast of a large island that rhymes with Shmiceland,. The IQA officials are just about ready to begin the draw for the knockout round for the 2002 Quidditch World Cup!”
Lee’s next words were drowned up by an uproar in the office, hearty applause and cheers nearly deafening Katie. Alicia squealed in delight, throwing her arms around Katie even tighter. Katie couldn’t hear anything the tiny witch was saying, but she grinned nonetheless. Someone managed to shush the crowd.
”…secrecy is, of course, paramount to help safeguard against tampering of the draw… ah, ladies and gentleman, it looks like the first draw is ready to begin! We’ve got the IQA official—Merlin’s beard that’s one hell of a mustache—and it’s Brazil! Brazil versus… Norway!”
Katie watched as Dennis Creevey directed his wand to a large board. Two large flags blossomed on its surface, billowing in an imaginary wind, forming the first bracket. She could scarcely breathe. Merlin, it was happening.
”…looks a tough match there…alright, next we have…. IRELAND! Ireland will be facing off against…. Oh, looks like, yes, Ireland versus China!”
It continued. Argentina and Moldova promised a monstrosity of a match. Bulgaria and Japan, Poland and New Zealand…
”Jamaica will be going toe to toe with… IT’S OFFICIAL, JAMAICA VERSUS ENGLAND!”
Anything else Lee said was drowned out in a pure roar from the office. Alicia dragged Katie into a hug that she feared might actually crack her ribs. All pretense of listening to the WWN dropped. Creevey called for order, looking beleaguered, but no one could bother listening. Katie was swept up in the crowd, buoyed towards the team by the mass of people. She collided roughly into Indira Choudry, but then they were hugging and cheering.
“We’re all going to the Three Broomsticks after,” she barely heard Indira over the crowd, even standing right next to each other. Katie ignored the way her stomach clenched at the mention of the pub and, in a fit of stupidity, ‘woo’ed herself as a form of assent.
It took nearly two and a half hours to escape the offices. There were more toasts and the matter of the press. Katie thought she might never see properly again after the blinding flashes of twelve million cameras. Positioned between the team manager and Indira, Katie managed to avoid causing any trouble for the entirety of the mob. She was rather impressed with herself. She hadn’t even hexed the reporter who’d asked about the Montrose Incident.
Katie had never been gladder to be free of cameramen. Releasing a whoop of exhilaration, she leapt onto Denison’s back. He staggered under her for a moment, before caving to her mad impulses and hitching her up. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, her grin already half-manic. She wanted to run until her muscles gave in, drink until she couldn’t see straight, start a fight, stumble into someone’s bed, anything that would sate the itch crawling along her spine.
“You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you Bell?” Denison deadpanned. Katie placed a hand to her chest in mock offence. She noticed that he had yet to drop her. And was that a grin she spied? Oh yes. Katie looked forward to seeing their ever so straight laced Keeper let loose a little. They’d only been playing together for the past two years, on and off as players competed for those coveted starting positions. In all that time, she had yet to see Denison anything less than composed and focused. She meant to change that. The rest of the team was finally joining them, escaping the clusterfuck of reporters and cameras.
“Frisby! I just… I can’t believe you even have to ask. Of course I’m going to do something stupid.”
In
Taco's Taco Truck! [High Casual-Advanced, Ignore Post Count]
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12 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
Hip bump!
AH OKAY. Had to start over because my post was shite, but I finally have something I feel good about. I'm thinking I might be another hour or two before I can poop it up. I was going to just pop 2 POV sections in my post for Kates and Krum, if that's alright.
ALSO WE SHOULD PROBABLY maybe figure out the other people playing for England and Bulgaria O: I was thinking we could mostly keep the 1998 Bulgarian team, maybe switch out two or so players for newbies, but yes.
I figure at least one or two of the English team from 1994 is still around, but we have more leeway to throw in other minor canons. I have Alicia Spinnet as working for the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but anyone else is fair game. I picked 2 names at random from the 1994 Quidditch team and threw them onto the team. WHOOSH!
ENGLAND ENGLAND
ALSO WE SHOULD PROBABLY maybe figure out the other people playing for England and Bulgaria O: I was thinking we could mostly keep the 1998 Bulgarian team, maybe switch out two or so players for newbies, but yes.
I figure at least one or two of the English team from 1994 is still around, but we have more leeway to throw in other minor canons. I have Alicia Spinnet as working for the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but anyone else is fair game. I picked 2 names at random from the 1994 Quidditch team and threw them onto the team. WHOOSH!
ENGLAND ENGLAND
Keeper, Denison Frisby, 31
Chaser, Marcus Flint, 27
Chaser, Katie Bell, 24
Chaser
Beater, Indira Choudry, 29- Beater
- Seeker
Amaka Gaspar || 22 || Jumper
I'm about halfway through the post, but I have some chores to finish. I might be able to post tonight but it might be more like tomorrow.
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