MARS IN RUIN

BAZZ-B, "THE HEAT" independent & mutual-exclusive; penned by Tom

[lionfloss]

Lava flow on Puna coast, Hawaii

[bazz-b]

((Surgery successful. Overestimated my constitution or underestimated the recovery. Will be sporadic but present))

[bazz-b]

((Yo guess who didn’t DROWN))

[bazz-b]

((Internet spotty but let me be clear that both Bazz-B and I are very intimidating. Im, like, SO SCARY YOU GUYS))

[bazz-b]

🐰 bc no chicken emoji

Send 🐰 for barely intimidating

[bazz-b]

🐰 too much of a nerd.

Send 🐰 for barely intimidating

[bazz-b]

🐰 You're nothing but a Bunny Rabbit with your energy levels.

Send 🐰 for barely intimidating

[bazz-b]

What’s your role in bed?

[phantasmalatelier]

How Intimidating Am I?

Send 🐹 for “You? Intimidating? Hell no.”

Send 🐰 for barely intimidating

Send 🐭 for slightly intimidating

Send 🐱 for moderately intimidating

Send 🦊 for fairly intimidating

Send 🐯 for very intimidating

Send 🐻 for “MOTHER OF GOD PLEASE DON’T EAT ME–”

[bazz-b]

The punk looking Quincy would be presented with a large bowl of stew. Not just any stew though. It was a proper, traditional viking strew. A recipe passed on through the generations with things like garlic, potato, meat, cabbage, vegetable stock, and beer. And a little bacon for good measure. It would have been cooked over a fire in a cast iron pot until everything was soft, but not soggy, with the scent of fresh herbs pooling deliciously into the air. Along with it would be fresh bread, a bit of butter, and of course, some meed. [ from x-vandrelyst-x ]

It was the dichotomy of his current lot in life to be torn between the past and the future. There weren’t a lot that could boast his age and still have any clue to the modern era. Punk was the aesthetic he peddled while clinging to tradition, passing on Quincy culture like one of those outdated elders. It was enough to make a guy go grey.

So, when the traditional dish made its way over to him, he turned his nose up at it. An age of fast food and grease, or that hipster deconstructed shit— his instinct was to reject the incoming history lesson. But he tempered the urge, tried some empathy for a change. How much could he pile onto the girl and then deny in turn?

The true problem, if he dug to the root of it, was what the meal reminded him of. Being doted on called forth memories of home. Not Silbern, not some motel— his real home, the Black estate of ancient yore. Home cooked meals and creature comforts. Maids and serving folk. It tugged at long forgotten heart strings.

But the smell would illicit conflicting thoughts again, of boisterous laughter that put him on edge. Of the Miracle and his own home styled meals. Gerard Valkyrie would often eat from dishes similar to this. “You didn’t have to,” is all Bazz-B could manage to grumble, finally digging into the meal. The rest he would consume in silence. @x-vandrelyst-x

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Disse86

[bazz-b]

* are you really going in there?

There’s a pause, a moment of thought. Gears turning, pride weighed against intellect. Was it worth it? Likely not. Did he truly stand to gain anything? Well, it wasn’t a zero gain scenario. But again, was the cost worth it?

She clears her throat, a reminder that a question goes unanswered, and he turns to look at her. The look on her face is almost unreadable, but he’s sure there’s a distinct lack of concern. Goading, maybe? Incredulity? It’s almost unreadable, and maybe he’s just projecting, but he’s sure she’s goading him.

A double bluff? He frowns, she remains unchanged. A stare off, a stand down. “I was just going to say hi.” The raised eyebrow he receives in return is deafening as they stand before the First Division’s headquarters. Okay, maybe he could have thought of a better lie..

[bazz-b]

Why is it that you often come to my barracks? Feeling some kind of guilt?

“Let’s run through the options, kid. First Division have a little more metal in them, not a group worth poking at recreationally. The Second are lead by, quite frankly, a lunatic. She’d hunt me down until one of us killed the other if I so much as farted on her land. The Third has shitty taste in music, and their corpse Lieutenant kinda freaks me out, and it’d be cruel to pick on the infirm squatting at the Fourth. You’ve got a Hollow-Hybrid freak running the Fifth, and I’m sure you’ve heard how much grief I’ve given the Sixth’s Lieutenant already. Seventh’s too loud, the Eighth’s got another freak running it— Ninth too, actually. Why do you hire so many of them? Anyway, Eleventh is a battleground that I’d take the blame for engaging in, Twelfth is home to Kurotsuchi-fucking-Mayuri, a psychopath I’d put down in a heartbeat, and the Thirteenth.. well, they’re just kinda boring. So that leaves my buddies at the Tenth, who I know aren’t dumb enough to get their ass kicked again, but aren’t weak enough not to gimme some entertainment if I step over the wrong lines. But, if you think my presence is so endearing that it’s working off some sorta perceived guilt, I’ll take the compliment. You could have just said you liked my company.”

[bazz-b]

Bawk?

Caw caw

Cluck cluck

Cock-a-doodle-doo

Voting ended onFeb 11, 2023

[bazz-b]

* you know, people can hear you.

“The point of this volume isn’t exactly subterfuge.” Lining up another shot, he takes a swig from the bottle before closing his eyes and letting loose— glass shattering signalling another bullseye. Broken glass and dripping roof tiles mark his previous successes, a line of bottles scattered across the Tenth Division’s rooftops.

Target practice. It wasn’t the most entertaining thing he could think of, but it was the one he’d get in the leash amount of trouble for. “Another perfect shot for three-time gold medalist, Bazzard Black!” He shouts, thick, exaggerated American accent, crossbow waving around as he looks for another drink. “This will be his fourth consecutive victory in the vagrant olympics!”

[bazz-b]

"You’re a shit friend." [ Elsa ]

“That’s a hot take, Morgenstern. Not one I’d wager you’re qualified to make.” Rounding on the Soldat, he sneers. “This relationship of ours isn’t one of equals. We’re not chums or roomies.” A hand to her face, he squeezes her cheeks together. “I’m your boss, moron. If we were friends, you’d be fucking praising my name. I’m the best damn friend any cocksucker around here could ask for.” Pushing her away, he scowls. “You wanna see shit friends, I could show you a list.”

[bazz-b]

* keep your hands to yourself.

“Touchy, touchy.” Palms open outward, slightly raised in a mock sign of peace, surrender. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” They were cautious, wary. Maybe tales of his proclivity to melt a Shinigami or two had stuck around long after the war. Good. A healthy dose of fear was a stepping stone to respect. But if it was laced with ignorance, it was merely a powder keg waiting for a spark.

“But, just so we’re on the same page…” Fingers lower one, by one— a single digit pointed skyward. “These babies are just as dangerous whether they’re touching you or not.”