Roman

Roman's Scrapbin

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

H E L L B L A Z E R

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^{_{J O H N C O N S T A N T I N E ♦ U N E M P L O Y E D ♦ E N G L A N D ♦ I N D E P E N D E N T}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

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^{"S'just the way of it. We all sell our souls sooner or later."}

This Constantine is young. He's just been released from Ravenscar after an eighteen-month incarceration, with no home, family, friends or life to return to. His sister is still disappeared; his mother is still dead; his father still may as well be. He's a blank slate to carve scars and stories into, and there's a clear vision to begin setting him up as the equally legendary and infamous mage we know from DC today.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

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Description

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

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Ravenscar Psychiatric Hospital

A large mental health facility in the North of England, Ravenscar has existed in one form or another for hundred of years, and will exist for a hundred more. The 'treatment' used within is questionable and often outdated, and the staff are often negligent or outright cruel. It is not a place of dedicated healing, and most patients do not leave. John Constantine was one of the lucky few - but the fear that his fragile psyche will lead back to that shadowy building hangs over him eternally.

Cheryl Constantine

John's elder sister, who cared for John during their childhood and did her best to protect the both of them from their father. John and Cheryl enjoy a deep bond with each other via their shared childhood trauma, but also find it difficult to spend time together due to the memories that tend to resurface. Two years ago, Cheryl disappeared in mysterious circumstances, and shortly afterward John started experiencing horrific nightmares and strange visions. Coupled with his grief and the inability of all invovled to find her, he suffered a nervous break, and was committed to Ravenscar. Cheryl remains missing, and John refuses to believe she is dead.

Thomas Constantine

John and Cheryl's alcoholic, abusive, general degenerate father. still in Liverpool. With several misdemeanor crimes on his record, he works basic labour at the docks, and uses the money to drink himself to death. John reckons he's well over halfway there; with a bit of luck, he'll do himself in by the end of the year.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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Leeds. June. 2006. John was ten, Cheryl fourteen. Summer in Liverpool, as much as Liverpool could allow, and the sky was covered by a pallid shroud of grey clouds. They were collecting change - running through the streets, spotting shrapnel on the floor, on abandoned tables, in phoneboxes and ticket machines. John's pockets rattled melodically with coins as he joked, jostled, teased and cracked wise. Cheryl downplayed her amusement but could not stifle a chuckle here and there.

At a dockside cafe, Cheryl distracted the owner with meandering, protracted questions about the menu, while John took the opportunity to dip his hand into the tip jar and came up with a few more silvers than he had gone in with. Cheryl had ordered cola and sandwiches and the pair ate outside; when the owner turned to serve another customer, the pair had ran, laughing at themselves and each other as the frustrated shouts grew quieter and quieter behind them.

Back on the high street they ducked into a Boots and found a disposable camera; John emptying his pockets into Cheryl's outstretched hands so that she could count out their collection. They had only scrap left after their purchase, but they left the coins and the plastic wrapping of the camera on the counter behind them as they left with their prize. They filled the camera roll in only a few short hours, and then returned to Boots to develop the film. The lady behind the counter huffed and puffed as they turned out their pockets to pay the fee, and eventually, just waived it entirely as their performance grew too tedious to deal with any longer.

John and Cheryl sat on a street bench in the fading sunlight, thumbing eagerly through their envelope of photographs. Many were unfortunately marred by poor lighting, lens glare, or even intrusions from John's clumsy fingers as he had played with the camera. But one picture stood out: Cheryl, standing center frame with the Royal Albert Docks behind her, smiling and laughing at the John behind the camera. The clouds had opened up in a moment of serendipity to stream sunlight down onto the water, and it bounced off the surface of the docks to light up the photo from behind. To John, the photo was remarkable, perhaps the greatest accomplishment of his young life so far; it held a paradoxically fleeting and infinite moment of serenity, and seemed to capture an angelic quality about Cheryl. The photo was a gleaming representation of John's sister through John's eyes; he loved it, and her, and they spent the rest of the evening delaying their return home any way they knew how.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

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DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

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_{The Return Of The West}

A Man Came Walking...

Bevis Neadle picks up his phone and checks the local public alerts. The main one today is an excessive heat warning, cautioning temperatures in excess of 108 Fahrenheit, worse deeper into the desert with no cloud coverage and minimal winds to carry the heat away. The alert has been active for two days, and warns of a further four to come before some kind of relief; those who can are advised to remain sheltered from the sun, and hydrate with a steady of supply of water, avoiding salty foods. Bevis’ AC is running full kilter, and still when he sits he can feel drops of sweat beading down his face. The water from his taps comes out lukewarm at best, and is unpleasant and un-refreshing to drink, but he drinks anyway, sometimes filling up a few glasses and setting them in his fridge for an hour or two just to have some cool water in the house. His dog has not moved from in front of the unit, and Bevis had had to move the food and water bowl closer to his spot so that he would eat and drink. The curtains are all drawn to block sunlight from entering the house, and he moved his pillow downstairs two nights previous to sleep on the cooler wooden floor of the living room, no blanket required.

With all this in mind, Bevis picks up his binoculars and looks out of the back window to watch the lone figure currently walking at a steady pace out of the desert towards his house. He has no idea who the man is, dressed in slacks, boots, shirt, vest, and a ragged but impressive hat, and Bevis can see from here the distinct shape of a pistol hanging on the figure’s hip, but he is sure the man should be dead. Bevis noticed him this morning, waking up as the heat began to rise and made sleep too uncomfortable to be possible, but he had been a distant blur dismissed as mirage then. Over the course of the day Bevis had kept checking though, and when the blur gained a solid outline, he knew it was no mirage. Someone was walking out of the desert in near-120 degree heat.

Bevis went out to greet him at 8PM, some 100-odd metres from his property line. This close he didn’t need the binoculars, and he could see the man was covered in dirt and sand, sweat staining his clothes and his boots covered in dust kicked up by the desert winds and his own feet. He looked old - not age wise, just not of the modern era - his garments battered and worn and not like any contemporary fashion Bevis knew about, simple but sturdy in their construction. He looked like a cowboy from the old stories. His face was...his face was a mess. Bevis averted his eyes as he called out to the man. He was nervous, knowing something unnatural was at play but not wanting to acknowledge or address it. The cowboy had long since spotted him, and came to a halt at Bevis’ fence, resting a single hand on the gate. Bevis allowed himself to be reassured by his rifle, leaning against the wall of his house just behind him.

“H-hello there, stranger!” Bevis began. The cowboy regarded him through his one good eye. “Been watchin’ you most the day. You come a long way there.”
The cowboy snorted and spat at the ground, Bevis glancing at how the horrific disfigurement stretched up and beyond his mangled ear as he turned his head.
“Might I ask where you’ve come from?”
The question hung in the air.
“The grave.” The cowboy’s voice was deep, gravelly. He spoke with a survivor’s grit. Bevis processed the answer and decided to discard it.
“Then you’re lookin’ pretty fine all considered. You need water?”
“I ain’t thirsty.”
Bevis swallowed, his throat dry. The whole situation was wrong, but his mind rebelled against the knowledge.
“Bread? Beef?”
“Ain’t hungry neither.”
“Where you headed?”
“To find some answers.”
Bevis was close to officially checking out of the entire circumstance. He eyed the pistol on the cowboy’s hip. The cowboy noticed.
“Ain’t got no reason to draw ‘less you give me one.”
“I ain’t lookin’ to give you one.”
“Then I reckon we gon’ be just swell.”

The cowboy lingered at the gate, surveying the landscape ahead of him beyond Bevis’ small house.
“We in Arizona?” He asked. Bevis stuttered, befuddled by the question.
“Y-yeah.”
“Then if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Armadilla, I would tip my hat in gratitude and be on my way.”
“A-Armadilla?”
“We are in Arizona?”
“Y-yes, but there ain’t no Armadilla ‘round here.”
“Arizona America?”
Bevis just nodded. The cowboy sighed.
“Then if you just point me toward the closest drinkin’ town, I’ll make do.”
“D-drinkin’ town?”
“Just tell me where in the goddamn hell I can get some liquor, boy!”
Bevis jumped at the cowboy’s sudden shouting, and took a step back towards his rifle. The cowboy slowly laid a hand on his holster.
“A-Ajo town’s 30 miles. T-Tucson’s another hundred after that.” He finally spat out, his voice shaking.
The cowboy nodded, removing his hand from his gun to tip his hat. “Then I hope Ajo’s got a reputable whiskey-slinging establishment.” He said, letting go of the fence and beginning to walk again.

Bevis watched him go, not moving from his porch as the cowboy slowly and steadily disappeared from view over the horizon, never wavering in his gait. When the sun had finally gone down, and the cowboy was completely lost from view, Bevis went back inside, drunk directly from the tap, wiped himself down, then fainted.

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The sun was rising as Jonah walked past the first residences of Ajo, Arizona, and when his boots went from sand to the asphalt of the road, he stopped, and looked down. He’d seen brick roads and cobbled streets in his day, even seen a few buildings made from cement, but this was strange. He brushed a hand across the surface of the road and found it to be coarse; cracks ran deep, and where he’d brushed the desert dust aside it was deep black. He’d never seen anything like it, and while it was harder than the sand it felt smoother, stabler to walk on.
“Hmm. Alright.” He muttered quietly to himself, before standing again and surveying his surroundings. The houses around him were small and one-storey, with smooth, single-colour walls. Nearly all of them had chain link fences, and the one that didn’t had a fancy-looking mix of brick and iron that looked very out-of-place against the desert and its neighbours. A few houses had next to them what looked like second houses, but with wheels, and some kind of cabin at the front. Jonah didn’t want to think about that just yet.

Instead, he walked to the nearby intersection where the roads converged and looked down each street, checking the houses on either side for where the buildings became more frequent and better-repaired; that would lead to the town’s main street, and hopefully a saloon. It was quiet, save the desert winds pushing the sand along the ground. A small pack of coyotes trotted a little ways down the road, sniffing around but not finding anything. Jonah watched as one got up on its hind legs against a large metal bin and used its nose to push the top off; the crash-clang of the lid on the road spooked the pack and they all ran. Bright light sprung from the windows of the house; Jonah could hear movement from within, and quickly moved on, not looking for any unpleasantries with the locals. He followed the road, heading further into town.

From an alleyway Jonah heard someone tumbling to the ground, swearing and hitting metal. He investigated; a man stumbled to his feet, leaning on a large metal container to steady himself, and then threw back a swig from the bottle in his other hand. The man went to move, then tripped over himself again, and hit the ground hard. The bottle rolled away towards Jonah, and he stopped it beneath his boot. He picked it up, inspecting the label - ‘beer’ was about the only word amidst the barrage of adjectives that felt both familiar and necessary - and slowly approached the man, who had given up on getting up, and had merely rolled himself over to sit up against the container he had previously steadied himself on. Jonah handed the drunk the bottle, and then crouched down next to him.

“Son, you are just full as a tick.”
The drunk looked at Jonah and squinted, taking another swig of his beer bottle. He slurred his words.
“I ain’t no bug.”
Jonah raised an eyebrow. “I mean you’re drunk, boy.”
“Now...to THAT I raise a toast..!” The drunk swigged again and emptied the bottle, tossing it aside. He looked Jonah up and down. “You’re funny-lookin’, mister. Just roll in from the wild west?”
“I’m gonna let that slide on account of your being roostered, and ask you to point me in the direction of a saloon.”
“A...a saloon?” The drunk guffawed, hiccuping between laughs. “You really are a rootin-tootin cowboy, man! Yeehaw, ride ‘em!” He laughed again, and Jonah hung his head and sighed in frustration. He carefully undid the clasp on his holster and brought the barrel of his pistol up into the drunk’s chin. The drunk stopped laughing pretty quick, then.
“Listen here, ya damn drunk mudsill. I have had a long, dry, few days, and I would much care for a quiet place to bend my elbow and make sense’a what the hell’s goin’ on. Now I need you to understand you have woken up the wrong passenger, and you are gonna tell me where I can wet my whistle, or I am gonna knock galley west before I empty my six.” Jonah leaned forwards, his face coming into the light of the moon. The drunk whimpered as he eyed Jonah’s scars.
“Wha-what happened to your f-face…?”
Jonah cocked the hammer back on his pistol.
“Turn left at the end and 3 doors down! Jessie’s! It’s a dive, but it’s open 24 hours!”
Jonah nodded and holstered his pistol. The drunk sighed in relief, then gasped when Jonah instead reeled back and struck him across the jaw. He slumped over, out cold, and Jonah walked away following the directions.

Jonah found the bar quickly enough. He opened the door carefully but with purpose, and stood in the half-shadow of the doorway, the electric bulbs illuminating his front and the moonlight shining on his back. The bar was mostly empty, one or two patrons already collapsed across their table, sound asleep and snoring, and there was a single disinterested bartender at the far end. The bartender idly picked at her mouth with a toothpick, barely even glancing at the open door where Jonah stood. Jonah took two steps in, his boots landing heavy on the wooden floor and spurs clinking, and let the door swing shut behind him. The bartender looked up properly this time, and furrowed her brow as Jonah approached the counter. They eyed each other as Jonah stood silently. The bartender consciously ignored Jonah’s scars and odd getup. She’d seen enough to know what not to ask about.

After a beat, Jonah sat down.
“Whiskey. Cheap.”
The bartender turned wordlessly, selecting a bottle of something brown and unlabelled from the shelf and pouring a single shot out. Jonah took the glass and the shot quickly, showing no reaction.
“‘Nother.”
Same again. Jonah drank it like water.
“‘Noth-”
“Just take the bottle. I ain’t standin’ here and pourin’ it out for you eighteen times in a row. I’m busy enough.”

Jonah took a look around the bar. The fella in the booth had slicked the table with drool. Jonah nudged the fella at the bar next to him with his boot, and got only a snorting start before he returned to snoring.
“Yeah...flush off yer feet.” He replied, taking the bottle all the same and pouring another drink.
“You know what day it is?”
“Ma’am, I’m at sea to know even what year it is.”
“Saturday. Early hours of, in fact. Which means the night worker boys will be here soon, and then I will be busy.”
Jonah nodded, staring ahead, taking his fourth drink.
“Three dollars a drink, by the way, so the math is on you.”
Jonah almost spat out the liquor in shock.
“Three dollars for this damn swill? I said cheap!”
The bartender eyed Jonah quizzically.
“That’s the cheapest shit I got, and I ain’t even waterin’ it down.”
“Don’t reckon there’d be any whisky left if you did…” Jonah muttered, picking up the bottle and looking at it through the light. Same colour as piss, he thought. Even still, he’d had worse. Jonah reached for his pocket and seized what money he had, pulling it out and slamming it down palm-first on the counter. The sleeper next to him jumped, waking and frowning, but returned to sleeping quick enough. Jonah removed his hand to reveal his net worth.

“Two dollars?” The bartender asked, disbelief in her voice. Jonah considered the coins, the silver dull and dirty. Sand speckled the dark wood of the bar.
“Two dollars.” Jonah confirmed. The bartender sighed. She picked a coin up and turned it in her hands.
“Wait a minute...these are old. Really old. Does this say 1820?” She spoke in an excited, but hushed tone. Jonah looked at the other coin before dropping it back on the counter.
“Reckon it does.”
The bartender raised both of her eyebrows.
“Just where the hell are you from, mister.”
“Missouri-born, miss.”
“Uh-huh, sure thing, sure, so just how the hell did you end up in a shitty dive bar in the middle-of-nowhere Arizona looking like a damn gunslinger with 200-year-old coins jingling around in your damn pocket?”
Jonah shrugged, taking another drink, this time forgoing the glass to swig directly from the bottle.
“Walked.”
The bartender growled in frustration and put her head in her hands. Jonah watched her, faintly amused.

“Alright, look,” she finally said, a tone of finality in her voice, “here’s the picture. Some stranger, dressed up to the nines in his cowboy best, gravelly-voiced and battle-scarred, walks in to my bar covered in sand and sweat at god-knows in the damn morning. He doesn’t ask for water, or for food, he just wants the cheapest liquor I can give him, and then he pounds the bottle like a alky vet and then tries to pay for a 3-dollar drink with 2 silvers, both of which are worth over a grand, and yet he has no idea that they’re as valuable as they are. Then he says he walked across six states. Walked.”
Jonah leaned back, swallowing the image.
“That is about the all of it.” He concluded.
“You got anywhere you’re staying?”
Jonah shook his head.
“Alright. I’ll take these coins as payment, and you can drink whatever you want to drink. And I’ve got a room too. But if you’re gonna stay, you do me a favor first.”
Jonah finally chuckled slightly, though when he spoke, his voice was cold as the grave.
“Been a long time since I worked for free.”
“We’ll split what I get for the coins, then. Either way, if you need a room, I’m the only option, and I need something done.”

Jonah regarded her through his good eye.

“Alright. Shoot.”

Roman's Scrapbin

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_{The Return Of The West}

A Man Came Walking...

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

These are the players that were accepted prior to the beginning of the IC. As such, players such as Roman's Jonah Hex, Cybermaxx's Teen Titans, and more recently accepted characters have no reason to worry this week.

@Master Bruce

Also it's my birthday so today doesn't count

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

T H E B O U N T Y H U N T E R

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^{_{J O N A T H A N W O O D S O N H E X ♦ B O U N T Y H U N T E R ♦ T U S C O N , A R I Z O N A ♦ T H E W I L D W E S T}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

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^{"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."}

What makes a man an outlaw?

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life?

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love.

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains.

What makes a man come back?

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

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"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

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Revenant

"Revenent, [ˈrɛv(ə)nənt], Noun. A person who has returned, especially supposedly from the dead." Jonah has returned from the grave, and he's picked up some peculiarities with it: resistance to pain; extraordinary stamina; no need to eat, drink, or rest. He has also lost his memory and has no idea why he's suddenly alive again, but has a burning purpose to uncover his mystery.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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[+]

Bevis Neadle picks up his phone and checks the local public alerts. The main one today is an excessive heat warning, cautioning temperatures in excess of 108 Fahrenheit, worse deeper into the desert with no cloud coverage and minimal winds to carry the heat away. The alert has been active for two days, and warns of a further four to come before some kind of relief; those who can are advised to remain sheltered from the sun, and hydrate with a steady of supply of water, avoiding salty foods. Bevis’ AC is running full kilter, and still when he sits he can feel drops of sweat beading down his face. The water from his taps comes out lukewarm at best, and is unpleasant and un-refreshing to drink, but he drinks anyway, sometimes filling up a few glasses and setting them in his fridge for an hour or two just to have some cool water in the house. His dog has not moved from in front of the unit, and Bevis had had to move the food and water bowl closer to his spot so that he would eat and drink. The curtains are all drawn to block sunlight from entering the house, and he moved his pillow downstairs two nights previous to sleep on the cooler wooden floor of the living room, no blanket required.

With all this in mind, Bevis picks up his binoculars and looks out of the back window to watch the lone figure currently walking at a steady pace out of the desert towards his house. He has no idea who the man is, dressed in slacks, boots, shirt, vest, and a ragged but impressive hat, and Bevis can see from here the distinct shape of a pistol hanging on the figure’s hip, but he is sure the man should be dead. Bevis noticed him this morning, waking up as the heat began to rise and made sleep too uncomfortable to be possible, but he had been a distant blur dismissed as mirage then. Over the course of the day Bevis had kept checking though, and when the blur gained a solid outline, he knew it was no mirage. Someone was walking out of the desert in near-120 degree heat.

Bevis went out to greet him at 8PM, some 100-odd metres from his property line. This close he didn’t need the binoculars, and he could see the man was covered in dirt and sand, sweat staining his clothes and his boots covered in dust kicked up by the desert winds and his own feet. He looked old - not age wise, just not of the modern era - his garments battered and worn and not like any contemporary fashion Bevis knew about, simple but sturdy in their construction. He looked like a cowboy from the old stories. His face was...his face was a mess. Bevis averted his eyes as he called out to the man. He was nervous, knowing something unnatural was at play but not wanting to acknowledge or address it. The cowboy had long since spotted him, and came to a halt at Bevis’ fence, resting a single hand on the gate. Bevis allowed himself to be reassured by his rifle, leaning against the wall of his house just behind him.

“H-hello there, stranger!” Bevis began. The cowboy regarded him through his one good eye. “Been watchin’ you most the day. You come a long way there.”
The cowboy snorted and spat at the ground, Bevis glancing at how the horrific disfigurement stretched up and beyond his mangled ear as he turned his head.
“Might I ask where you’ve come from?”
The question hung in the air.
“The grave.” The cowboy’s voice was deep, gravelly. He spoke with a survivor’s grit. Bevis processed the answer and decided to discard it.
“Then you’re lookin’ pretty fine all considered. You need water?”
“I ain’t thirsty.”
Bevis swallowed, his throat dry. The whole situation was wrong, but his mind rebelled against the knowledge.
“Bread? Beef?”
“Ain’t hungry neither.”
“Where you headed?”
“To find some answers.”
Bevis was close to officially checking out of the entire circumstance. He eyed the pistol on the cowboy’s hip. The cowboy noticed.
“Ain’t got no reason to draw ‘less you give me one.”
“I ain’t lookin’ to give you one.”
“Then I reckon we gon’ be just swell.”

The cowboy lingered at the gate, surveying the landscape ahead of him beyond Bevis’ small house.
“We in Arizona?” He asked. Bevis stuttered, befuddled by the question.
“Y-yeah.”
“Then if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Armadilla, I would tip my hat in gratitude and be on my way.”
“A-Armadilla?”
“We are in Arizona?”
“Y-yes, but there ain’t no Armadilla ‘round here.”
“Arizona America?”
Bevis just nodded. The cowboy sighed.
“Then if you just point me toward the closest drinkin’ town, I’ll make do.”
“D-drinkin’ town?”
“Just tell me where in the goddamn hell I can get some liquor, boy!”
Bevis jumped at the cowboy’s sudden shouting, and took a step back towards his rifle. The cowboy slowly laid a hand on his holster.
“A-Ajo town’s 30 miles. T-Tucson’s another hundred after that.” He finally spat out, his voice shaking.
The cowboy nodded, removing his hand from his gun to tip his hat. “Then I hope Ajo’s got a reputable whiskey-slinging establishment.” He said, letting go of the fence and beginning to walk again.

Bevis watched him go, not moving from his porch as the cowboy slowly and steadily disappeared from view over the horizon, never wavering in his gait. When the sun had finally gone down, and the cowboy was completely lost from view, Bevis went back inside, drunk directly from the tap, wiped himself down, then fainted.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

TBC, partner.

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

<Snipped quote by Roman>

You're right. I have a life outside the internet.

@Retired

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

No one would ever seriously call you "our dear Roman," though. I'm starting to suspect those weren't genuine quotes.

@Retired

You clearly don't spend time in the same chatrooms that I do.

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

Rootin’, tootin’, toil n’ shootin’

Fire burn and cowboy bootin’

Eye of newt and spicy beans,

Toe of frog and denim jeans,

Whiskey, grits, n’ demon spittle

Tossed into my iron griddle

With the tannin’ of our hides,

Somethin’ wicked this way rides

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

T H E B O U N T Y H U N T E R

---

^{_{J O N A T H A N W O O D S O N H E X ♦ B O U N T Y H U N T E R ♦ T U S C O N , A R I Z O N A ♦ T H E W I L D W E S T}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

^{"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."}

What makes a man an outlaw?

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life?

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love.

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains.

What makes a man come back?

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

---

"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

Revenant

"Revenent, [ˈrɛv(ə)nənt], Noun. A person who has returned, especially supposedly from the dead." Jonah has returned from the grave, and he's picked up some peculiarities with it: resistance to pain; extraordinary stamina; no need to eat, drink, or rest. He has also lost his memory and has no idea why he's suddenly alive again, but has a burning purpose to uncover his mystery.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

[+]

Bevis Neadle picks up his phone and checks the local public alerts. The main one today is an excessive heat warning, cautioning temperatures in excess of 108 Fahrenheit, worse deeper into the desert with no cloud coverage and minimal winds to carry the heat away. The alert has been active for two days, and warns of a further four to come before some kind of relief; those who can are advised to remain sheltered from the sun, and hydrate with a steady of supply of water, avoiding salty foods. Bevis’ AC is running full kilter, and still when he sits he can feel drops of sweat beading down his face. The water from his taps comes out lukewarm at best, and is unpleasant and un-refreshing to drink, but he drinks anyway, sometimes filling up a few glasses and setting them in his fridge for an hour or two just to have some cool water in the house. His dog has not moved from in front of the unit, and Bevis had had to move the food and water bowl closer to his spot so that he would eat and drink. The curtains are all drawn to block sunlight from entering the house, and he moved his pillow downstairs two nights previous to sleep on the cooler wooden floor of the living room, no blanket required.

With all this in mind, Bevis picks up his binoculars and looks out of the back window to watch the lone figure currently walking at a steady pace out of the desert towards his house. He has no idea who the man is, dressed in slacks, boots, shirt, vest, and a ragged but impressive hat, and Bevis can see from here the distinct shape of a pistol hanging on the figure’s hip, but he is sure the man should be dead. Bevis noticed him this morning, waking up as the heat began to rise and made sleep too uncomfortable to be possible, but he had been a distant blur dismissed as mirage then. Over the course of the day Bevis had kept checking though, and when the blur gained a solid outline, he knew it was no mirage. Someone was walking out of the desert in near-120 degree heat.

Bevis went out to greet him at 8PM, some 100-odd metres from his property line. This close he didn’t need the binoculars, and he could see the man was covered in dirt and sand, sweat staining his clothes and his boots covered in dust kicked up by the desert winds and his own feet. He looked old - not age wise, just not of the modern era - his garments battered and worn and not like any contemporary fashion Bevis knew about, simple but sturdy in their construction. He looked like a cowboy from the old stories. His face was...his face was a mess. Bevis averted his eyes as he called out to the man. He was nervous, knowing something unnatural was at play but not wanting to acknowledge or address it. The cowboy had long since spotted him, and came to a halt at Bevis’ fence, resting a single hand on the gate. Bevis allowed himself to be reassured by his rifle, leaning against the wall of his house just behind him.

“H-hello there, stranger!” Bevis began. The cowboy regarded him through his one good eye. “Been watchin’ you most the day. You come a long way there.”
The cowboy snorted and spat at the ground, Bevis glancing at how the horrific disfigurement stretched up and beyond his mangled ear as he turned his head.
“Might I ask where you’ve come from?”
The question hung in the air.
“The grave.” The cowboy’s voice was deep, gravelly. He spoke with a survivor’s grit. Bevis processed the answer and decided to discard it.
“Then you’re lookin’ pretty fine all considered. You need water?”
“I ain’t thirsty.”
Bevis swallowed, his throat dry. The whole situation was wrong, but his mind rebelled against the knowledge.
“Bread? Beef?”
“Ain’t hungry neither.”
“Where you headed?”
“To find some answers.”
Bevis was close to officially checking out of the entire circumstance. He eyed the pistol on the cowboy’s hip. The cowboy noticed.
“Ain’t got no reason to draw ‘less you give me one.”
“I ain’t lookin’ to give you one.”
“Then I reckon we gon’ be just swell.”

The cowboy lingered at the gate, surveying the landscape ahead of him beyond Bevis’ small house.
“We in Arizona?” He asked. Bevis stuttered, befuddled by the question.
“Y-yeah.”
“Then if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Armadilla, I would tip my hat in gratitude and be on my way.”
“A-Armadilla?”
“We are in Arizona?”
“Y-yes, but there ain’t no Armadilla ‘round here.”
“Arizona America?”
Bevis just nodded. The cowboy sighed.
“Then if you just point me toward the closest drinkin’ town, I’ll make do.”
“D-drinkin’ town?”
“Just tell me where in the goddamn hell I can get some liquor, boy!”
Bevis jumped at the cowboy’s sudden shouting, and took a step back towards his rifle. The cowboy slowly laid a hand on his holster.
“A-Ajo town’s 30 miles. T-Tucson’s another hundred after that.” He finally spat out, his voice shaking.
The cowboy nodded, removing his hand from his gun to tip his hat. “Then I hope Ajo’s got a reputable whiskey-slinging establishment.” He said, letting go of the fence and beginning to walk again.

Bevis watched him go, not moving from his porch as the cowboy slowly and steadily disappeared from view over the horizon, never wavering in his gait. When the sun had finally gone down, and the cowboy was completely lost from view, Bevis went back inside, drunk directly from the tap, wiped himself down, then fainted.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

TBC, partner.

Roman's Scrapbin

Whiskey, grits, and demon spittle
Tossed into my iron griddle
With the tannin’ of our hides
Somethin’ Wicked This Way Rides

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

T H E B O U N T Y H U N T E R

---

^{_{J O N A T H A N W O O D S O N H E X ♦ B O U N T Y H U N T E R ♦ T U S C O N , A R I Z O N A ♦ T H E W I L D W E S T}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

^{"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."}

What makes a man an outlaw?

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life?

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love.

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains.

What makes a man come back?

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

---

"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

Revenant

"Revenent, [ˈrɛv(ə)nənt], Noun. A person who has returned, especially supposedly from the dead." Jonah has returned from the grave, and he's picked up some peculiarities with it: resistance to pain; extraordinary stamina; no need to eat, drink, or rest.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

[+]

Bevis Neadle picks up his phone and checks the local public alerts. The main one today is an excessive heat warning, cautioning temperatures in excess of 108 Fahrenheit, worse deeper into the desert with no cloud coverage and minimal winds to carry the heat away. The alert has been active for two days, and warns of a further four to come before some kind of relief; those who can are advised to remain sheltered from the sun, and hydrate with a steady of supply of water, avoiding salty foods. Bevis’ AC is running full kilter, and still when he sits he can feel drops of sweat beading down his face. The water from his taps comes out lukewarm at best, and is unpleasant and un-refreshing to drink, but he drinks anyway, sometimes filling up a few glasses and setting them in his fridge for an hour or two just to have some cool water in the house. His dog has not moved from in front of the unit, and Bevis had had to move the food and water bowl closer to his spot so that he would eat and drink. The curtains are all drawn to block sunlight from entering the house, and he moved his pillow downstairs two nights previous to sleep on the cooler wooden floor of the living room, no blanket required.

With all this in mind, Bevis picks up his binoculars and looks out of the back window to watch the lone figure currently walking at a steady pace out of the desert towards his house. He has no idea who the man is, dressed in slacks, boots, shirt, vest, and a ragged but impressive hat, and Bevis can see from here the distinct shape of a pistol hanging on the figure’s hip, but he is sure the man should be dead. Bevis noticed him this morning, waking up as the heat began to rise and made sleep too uncomfortable to be possible, but he had been a distant blur dismissed as mirage then. Over the course of the day Bevis had kept checking though, and when the blur gained a solid outline, he knew it was no mirage. Someone was walking out of the desert in near-120 degree heat.

Bevis went out to greet him at 8PM, some 100-odd metres from his property line. This close he didn’t need the binoculars, and he could see the man was covered in dirt and sand, sweat staining his clothes and his boots covered in dust kicked up by the desert winds and his own feet. He looked old - not age wise, just not of the modern era - his garments battered and worn and not like any contemporary fashion Bevis knew about, simple but sturdy in their construction. He looked like a cowboy from the old stories. His face was...his face was a mess. Bevis averted his eyes as he called out to the man. He was nervous, knowing something unnatural was at play but not wanting to acknowledge or address it. The cowboy had long since spotted him, and came to a halt at Bevis’ fence, resting a single hand on the gate. Bevis allowed himself to be reassured by his rifle, leaning against the wall of his house just behind him.

“H-hello there, stranger!” Bevis began. The cowboy regarded him through his one good eye. “Been watchin’ you most the day. You come a long way there.”
The cowboy snorted and spat at the ground, Bevis glancing at how the horrific disfigurement stretched up and beyond his mangled ear as he turned his head.
“Might I ask where you’ve come from?”
The question hung in the air.
“The grave.” The cowboy’s voice was deep, gravelly. He spoke with a survivor’s grit. Bevis processed the answer and decided to discard it.
“Then you’re lookin’ pretty fine all considered. You need water?”
“I ain’t thirsty.”
Bevis swallowed, his throat dry. The whole situation was wrong, but his mind rebelled against the knowledge.
“Bread? Beef?”
“Ain’t hungry neither.”
“Where you headed?”
“To find some answers.”
Bevis was close to officially checking out of the entire circumstance. He eyed the pistol on the cowboy’s hip. The cowboy noticed.
“Ain’t got no reason to draw ‘less you give me one.”
“I ain’t lookin’ to give you one.”
“Then I reckon we gon’ be just swell.”

The cowboy lingered at the gate, surveying the landscape ahead of him beyond Bevis’ small house.
“We in Arizona?” He asked. Bevis stuttered, befuddled by the question.
“Y-yeah.”
“Then if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Armadilla, I would tip my hat in gratitude and be on my way.”
“A-Armadilla?”
“We are in Arizona?”
“Y-yes, but there ain’t no Armadilla ‘round here.”
“Arizona America?”
Bevis just nodded. The cowboy sighed.
“Then if you just point me toward the closest drinkin’ town, I’ll make do.”
“D-drinkin’ town?”
“Just tell me where in the goddamn hell I can get some liquor, boy!”
Bevis jumped at the cowboy’s sudden shouting, and took a step back towards his rifle. The cowboy slowly laid a hand on his holster.
“A-Ajo town’s 30 miles. T-Tucson’s another hundred after that.” He finally spat out, his voice shaking.
The cowboy nodded, removing his hand from his gun to tip his hat. “Then I hope Ajo’s got a reputable whiskey-slinging establishment.” He said, letting go of the fence and beginning to walk again.

Bevis watched him go, not moving from his porch as the cowboy slowly and steadily disappeared from view over the horizon, never wavering in his gait. When the sun had finally gone down, and the cowboy was completely lost from view, Bevis went back inside, drunk directly from the tap, wiped himself down, then fainted.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

TBC, partner.

The Curse of Crestwood Hollow - A Hyperhuman Story [CLOSED]

JENNY VENOM
JENNY VENOM

---

^{Bordeaux House, October 18th // ft. @Hillan as Victor Bordeaux}

The party was already in full swing when Jenny Venom and her cronies arrived. She’d had to walk, her parents refusing to give her a lift, and despite her father’s lucrative job they had not gifted her with her own vehicle upon her birthday, unlike many of her more fortunate peers. Micheal had offered his daughter use of his bike, a gesture that was equal parts genuine and passive-aggressive. Jennifer had quickly decided that the only way she would depart on the rusted, out-of-style old frame would be to ride it directly into River Shannon, and then dive in after it holding the sincere hope that no one she knew had seen her on its saddle in the first place. So she’d walked instead, setting off as early as she could so she could loop around into town to her usual hang-outs; it was there that she found, as she’d hoped, her usual companions, a mixed bag of Mathers Memorial students and alumni, all on the social fringes and united under a banner of defiance and ‘fuck you’.

Whys and Hows and Whos aside, they arrived late. The gang immediately went for the kitchen, a roving pack of booze-seeking missiles; Jennifer hung quiet and secluded on the outer circle of the party, carefully observing. Everyone was here - most of MMH in fact - and as Jennifer’s eyes scanned the ebbs and flows of social interaction, cliques forming and breaking and reforming, she spotted the key players: Dexter, the ex of the star guest; Andy, the best friend; RJ, the bad-boy wannabe with a thing for the girl-next-door. Autumn was hanging around, by herself as usual, moping and likely pining for the birthday girl. Victor was flitting about as well, once again playing understudy at his own birthday. No one of note had noticed her belated entry, or the uninvited she’d brought with her. Better that way. She slunk across the living room towards the kitchen after her friends, silently sneering at the records piled up next to the stereo waiting to be played, and no sooner than she had crossed the threshold from beige carpet to white tile, she had a plastic cup of beer thrust into her hands. She drank quickly, handing it back to be filled again.

“Man it’s all kids here, Venom. The place reeks of freshmen. ’ Danny piped up, the oldest and tallest of the group, kept around by virtue of his fake ID being the one most consistently accepted. He’d passed the initial beer, and now passed her the refill, of which Jenny threw back half the cup before responding.
“It’s the Bordeaux’s party. Who did you think was gonna be here? Most of Mather’s here tonight.”
Danny shrugged, looking to the others, who also shrugged. Half of them were Jennifer’s year anyway, and were well aware of Vanessa Bordeaux. The party had been well-anticipated by most of the school.
“If I didn’t show after getting Vanessa’s pity invite I’d have caught hell from most of everyone. I don’t need every grody loser and nerd getting rips on me for not being at the ‘It’ party of the year. Shit, half of these burnouts have just clawed their way up to zeek just by being here. ”
Danny nodded, half-listening. Jennifer was sour - it wasn’t a pity invite, it was Vanessa extending an olive branch, but Jenny wasn’t the accepting-olive-branches type, and she damn sure wasn't going to show just what kind of years-old regret and heartache the gesture had dredged up in her.
“Not even,” he eventually replied, but it was clear he was only rebutting for rebuttal’s sake, “but we’re bouncing anyway. Scoop a couple dollars and score some more booze from the 7-11 downtown. You in?”

Jennifer took stock. There wasn’t really anything here that she felt the need to hang around for; her face had been seen by the miscellaneous and she would be officially recorded as ‘in attendance’. But still, something wanted to linger here, a misplaced sense of wistfulness. Jenny looked around and saw, clear in her mind, a ‘What If’. She could have been here early, welcomed in by the twins before enjoying a slow glass of wine as more guests trickled in and then switching to beer as the energy and tempo in the house built. She could have kissed someone and laughed about it with Vanessa, speaking in hushed tones about who likes who and who had a totally hot bod and who needed to bag their face. Jenny put her hand in her jacket pocket and held a tight fist around the object she’d stashed in there to be presented tonight, crudely wrapped in some torn up newspaper. At the same time, she watched from the far side of the kitchen island as Vanessa trailed through the lounge straight to Andy’s side, dancing and laughing, before collapsing onto the sofa next to Autumn. Jenny’s knuckles were white gripped around her present as Vanessa led Autumn away by the hand to the upper stories of the house.

“I’m out.” She said simply, taking Danny’s cup of beer and swiping a liquor bottle from the countertop before pushing away from the kitchen, snaking her way through the lounge - swiping a pack of nails from someone’s back pocket as she did - before quietly climbing a short set of stairs and pushing through a door onto the balcony that overlooked the backyard. She finished the beer and poured in some liquor - gin? fucking gin? - and then sipped that as she sparked up a cigarette. Her plan was to reluctantly sip the gin until everyone else was inebriated enough to sneak out, and then finish the cigs on the way home to cover the smell of booze. And then Jennifer heard the balcony door open and close behind her, and she stiffened up as she turned around to discover who had deliberately sought her out, despite her caution to avoid those that would otherwise only serve to make her uncomfortable, or instill her with melancholy nostalgia.

Out of the door stepped the older of the Bordeaux Twins. He had a sheepish smile on his face. He walked up next to Jennifer and leaned over the railing on the balcony, gazing out at the people in the yard.
“Party too lame for you Jennifer?” He joked, as he got out a cigarette from his pack. Producing his father’s zippo lighter from the other pocket and lighting the smoke.
“Jenny.” She corrected emphatically. Victor conceded wordlessly as Jenny turned around to lean next to him.
“If I have to fake one more conversation about football, I’ll blow my brains out.” Victor said, miming two fingers next to his head.

Jenny “hmphed” instead of laughing, not wanting to give Vic the satisfaction, and they silently stood side-by-side, taking drags from their smokes and watching as the party began to spill out from the house into the spacious Bordeaux garden. She finished her measure of gin and poured another, pushing the cup across to Vic and keeping the bottle for herself. She sipped again before she spoke.
“You ever get sick of sharing your birthday, Vicky? Being overshadowed every year?”

Vic smiled as the cup slid it’s way over to him, catching it, he didn’t drink from it. He simply whisked the alcohol around in the cup by playing with it in his hand, watching the gin float from one side to the other. He glanced over at Jennifer and a soft smile crept up on his face. Dragging the last bit of tobacco out of his cigarette.

“A little. But I often put myself in the background. My sister thrives in the spotlight. I think I work best in the shadows. Behind the scenes.” His words were soft, almost solemn. It was clear he wasn’t jealous of Vanessa, but he also wasn’t satisfied with his position in the grand scheme of things.

This time Jenny did laugh. “You sound like you’ve practiced that line a lot, Vicky.” She drank, swilling the gin around in her mouth, letting the flavour mix with the rough smoke of the cheap cigarettes. “Believe yourself yet?”

Victor chuckled. “Maybe I have. At least twice a day in the mirror.” He finally took a swig out of the gin and almost spat it out. That was disgusting. As much as he tried to hide the fact that he thought so from his companion. “Remember when we were kids and I’d punch you for calling me ‘vicky’?” He said, after he had finally forced the alcohol down into his stomach, the burn hitting.
“Yet, I feel like you’d kick my ass now. So I guess I’ll just have to live that nickname down.” He concluded. He opened his pack again and got out another cig. Lighting it up, flipping the lighter with the dexterity of a Wild West desperado, thoughtlessly.

“You’re welcome to try.” She replied. More quiet. Jenny stubbed her cigarette on the railing. “Why are you out here, Vic? Go enjoy your party. Nessie’s hogging the guests. I came out here to be by myself anyway.”

Victor smiled. “It’s my balcony. Isn’t it? Party’s getting a little too much for me. I like smaller crowds. We ended up getting talked into inviting the entire school with their plus one. I haven’t talked to half of the people downstairs before in my life, and suddenly they’re buying me birthday gifts. It just doesn’t feel genuine.” He looked up at the sky, and then back down again. Eyeing the tree that had branches that almost reached all the way up onto the balcony. It was a big oak tree. Had been there for fifty years. Planted back when his mom was a kid. “Remember when we’d climb that tree and Vanessa couldn’t get down? She got so scared.” Victor chuckled, taking another swig of gin. It was truly awful.

Jennifer considered the tree and the memories its branches bore. The memories of childhood turned sour mixed with the experience of aging, and she felt bitter about Vic’s seeming ungratefulness for the outpouring of friendships laid before him. Jennifer remembered her last birthday; a sixer from Danny that she split into 3 pairs, and her father refusing to purchase the latest Ramones record, instead banning Jenny’s music from the house. She put her hand in her jacket pocket, and pulled out the gift. Scraps of torn newspaper drifted to the floor, but the sellotape and sheets held together. It was rough, and crude, and messy, but so was Jenny. She set it on the railing, balanced carefully between the two of them.

“That’s your present. Joint present. But Vanessa's too busy with her real friends, so you can have it. Hopefully it feels more ‘genuine’ for you than everything else you’re getting tonight.” She sparked up another nail, finishing the dregs of Vic’s cup for him before pouring the last of the gin into it and tossing the empty bottle over her shoulder onto the grass. She sipped as she took two short steps to the door, pulling it open and lingering on the threshold back into the house, head cocked to look over her shoulder, the shape of Vic blurry in her peripheral. “Happy Birthday, Victor. Enjoy your night.”

And with that she left him alone on the balcony.

The rest of the night passed quickly for Jennifer. The gin settled in her stomach as she emptied the cup before she made her way from the Bordeaux house, and by the time she walked through the garden, kicking the discarded bottle as she went past, moving past the tree line with a third cigarette lit and burning, she was decidedly drunk and well on her way to wasted. ‘Home’ barely registered in her alcohol-addled mind, and instead she just wandered as the roads took her, eventually ending up downtown again and causing trouble.