The Colonel's Manor

A roleplay and fanfiction blog dedicated to Tom Hardy's Legend and his towering performance as Ronnie Kray. Rules and Verses are linked down the bottom there. None of the icons or graphics used here are for sale. Neither are the Colonel's dogs, pub, brother, philosophical ramblings, or the contents of his contacts book. We're a multi-verse, multi-ship, and occasionally multi-muse establishment here, so no funny business. Both mun and muse are old enough to know better, and to legally consent to all kinds of nonsense.

[ronmanmob]

Awww fankoo darling fren <3

[grandgeodethunder]

[nolegacies]

Carrots...Y'know what, I might.

Something like a shade of what hope might look like, hitches shoulders and perks a head up by the slightest of degrees. Its all he can manage. And maybe that's a good thing because what might that say about him? Getting so excited over something like a carrot. Its silly. He knows that, and yet he can't help it at all. Can't stop it or push it down completely.

But then Ron is...leaving. And almost instantly excitement turns to apprension. Why? Because the dog is still there. It hadn't gone with their host. And its just sitting there....staring right back at him. Blue on black and black on blue. Neither one breaking the contact. Neither one backing down. One out of want for a snack and the other misreading literally everything about the poor dog's countenance. And in that misreading he's gone stiff hasn't he? Every muscle in his body tensed and ready for anything from any direction. The tea in his cup beginning to spin one way and then unwind the other. What's still in the urn near by starting to bubble along the bottom.

Dogs were fear mongers in the world from which he had escaped. Used to keep you in line. Keep you afraid. Keep you away from the out walls. Sent after you if you disobeyed. And there's the start of a shiver but it never quite makes it to fruition because in the next heat beat it all cut out like a switch being flipped. The urn ceases its almost rattle, his tea stops spinning in any direction that will have it. Everything is just as it had been when Ron left. And the carrots are focused upon with only so much spark to his gaze.

And maybe its a struggle at first. Which one to pick. Which one to...oh okay. Well he guesses he'll start with the whole one. finger tips that hold it up to his nose. Where he breathes it in. Its airy and yet earthy. Sweet and yet not that at all. Exactly like he remembers them being. Though don't ask him how he knows or how he remembers. He doesn't know any more than the next person might. And so the end is put between his teeth and ---

crunch.

A hand to his mouth as the bite threatens to fall back out. He hasn't had anything this raw or fresh in---he can't remember when. And it takes a second to remember how to chew it. But he gets the hang of it soon enough. The carrot now held a bit like the tea had been. Properly in front of him, both hands even if that wasn't necessary. And he finds himself saying something he hasn't had many opportunities to say in his life.

"Thank you."

Another bite, a little tea to wash it down. Though there's a slight face. Maybe finish the carrot first then drink the tea. Yes. Not so good together those things. Not good at a---

The ripples in his tea warble unnaturally and brows gather together a bit as he looks down. Watches them uneven pattern. He hadn't made that. That wasn't him. Something else did. Something that was both here and not here yet. Hairs that rise on the backs of his arms, lungs that still in the between like it will help him figure out which way its coming from or what it even is. But then time slows down, like it does in the movies and...

One. Two. Four. Seven.

There are seven of them, standing there now where there had been no one at all a moment before. Blue that tracks each one, then tracks to the exits he knows exist. There's no way he can get there. No way he could get through them for the front door or passed them to get back to Beth. And for seconds that paralyzes...freezes him up like ice. The fear of understanding what reprieve they had here is most likely over. That Beth is out of his reach. And that stick doesn't it? Throws the panic train right off its rails.

Beth is out of his reach. They are between him and Beth. That she's upstairs asleep utterly defenseless if he doesn't....doesn't--a blink that brings their gracious host into focus. Another to the dog that's already reacting to the sudden intrusion. Back again to the established threat. They dont' look like black coats, though. But black coats are sneaky aren't they? That's how they get you.

You do remember that the human body is 70 percent water...right? Go on. They deserve it. What if they get to Beth?

Billy is moving before he really understands that he is. Standing up from the stool, turning on his heel in the process. One hand...just one comes up. Muscles tensing almost visibly in an arm, and fingers claw and tense themselves. Curl inward slow and then all at once. And in real time it would look so much more horrifying.

Human bodies suddenly no longer in control of themselves. That arc outward and up, until all seven are teetering dangerously on the toes of their shoes. The cries that cut from their throats, short and broken because every molecule of H2O in their bodies have a new master now.

"The human body is made up almost entirely of water....did you know that?"

It doesn't sound like him. There is no stuttering, no hesitance. As if his voice has taken on something watery, something deeper, something that sailors whispered about on Tall Ships of old. A kind of voice that hints to what he might have sounded like were he not broken so young. Eyes that grow ever more blue with each passing second. Until the only thing in the room that can cut through the silence is the churning of the dishwasher. Spared damage because he doesn't need anything but what his victims already possess.

Its quick on the back end. A fist that pushes itself open as much as anything else. And seven men learn why Billy was locked up for so long. Why he was treated like he was. Why he really is just as dangerous as he is tall. Seven men who have every bit of water ripped out of them at inhuman speed. That leave little tracks of coagulating blood. As the water is gathered up. Spinning into an impossibly dense ball above Billy's open palm.

Some of it is absorbed until he can hold nothing else. And like a wave crashing on the shoreline, that open hand turns and closes with finite steadiness. What was left of the watery sphere dropping to the floor. Along with the seven once men. Billy standing before them like the last survivor of a tsunami. Stoic. Unmoving. Braced. Until he isn't.

Until his hands start to quake, and it spread like wild fire through the rest of him. Until his knees buckle, and his breathing shudders. Until he's trying to catch himself on the stool but misses. And he lands in a bit of a heap on the floor. Trapping the stool between him and the bar. Breathing coming in waves. The brilliance of his eyes receding, leaking out in the tear tracks down his face. Still shaking hands coming up to cover his head as he does everything he can to make himself as small as possible.

[ronmanmob]

How the drawing of battle replaced a world's worth of inputs into one point of singular focus for men who, like Ron, lived and breathed for this shit wasn't something he could easily describe for folk who didn't. Even those who thought they did, like the cloud of chancers Ron knew to be Richardson whelps before any one've 'em spoke Ol' Man Charlie's name in vain-- Even they wouldn't get it, couldn't get it, didn't live for the split second spark-roar of adrenaline through a body trained out of its natural inhibitions against violence like Ron did. They favoured noise and posturing, threats with knives and cudgels and were met, for the infraction they'd thought nothing of making before they'd made if but that each now regretted to his bone marrow, with a pistol's muzzle and a mastiff's teeth - artery seeking.

Mob justice, it would'a been.

Mob justice if, at the very second Ron's finger tightened on that trigger, Boy hadn't risen, turned, gestured and...drawn them up and in like he'd clenched a fist round the strings of so many fucking puppets.

The tremor the moment sent through every atom surrounding it turned Claude on a penny. With a yelp that screamed he pelted tail tucked through the door between bar and back of house faster than Ron could track. Not that he had the focus to split between the dog and what he was witnessing. His shooting arm dropping second-to-second as whatever not-magic Boy was working got worked, black eyes could only widen and fix and stare.

He'd known.

Not what the lad and his tiny counterpart could do, but what they were. The whole world knew and was curdling round folk like this pair like it did round the marginalised and the persecuted in times not so long past and Ron, who sat firm in at least two of those persecuted groups, had sworn blind and backwards that that All Goddamn Fucking Shit weren't ever to be allowed in His Manor. He'd shifted his focus, left Reggie to cultivate more of their illegal workings while he turned his resources to the better good of those that needed safety most and because of that shift, that relative lack of showing Face in gangland circles, Ol' Man Charlie's newest prospectives saw fit to challenge the East End's Bad Man in his own fuckin' house.

The cheek of it would've raked Ron's sense of place beyond description in any other circumstance. But now? In this moment? As seven young men had their water stole away into the air round 'em and a voice that didn't sound right outta Boy's face proclaimed like he was preaching on the Mount-

"The human body is made up almost entirely of water....did you know that?"

-Ron didn't have it in him to find his pearls easy to clutch. And then...Then the air looked like it was bleeding, and pearls be fucked...Pearls be fucked, all there was left behind Ron's wide black eyes was the stunned uncoiling of disbelief in what he was seeing as being possible, even though he knew it was.

Dead weight the marionette men hit the deck.

Dead weight and along with their fluids they hit the deck and the room became still. The atoms in all of everything ceased their screaming vibration and where once...Where once there'd been--

Wait.

Ron forced a deep breath into lungs that'd been screaming for air since he'd taken and held in a breath when he'd levelled the muzzle of his pistol at the nearest chancer's brow. Breathe he told himself. And he did.

In.

Out.

And as he did the space where the adrenaline prospective murder had lived in him filled with...something else; something of the same species of logic that had him fill shotgun shells with ice instead of buckshot so the damage done couldn't be traced. Pragmatism, he'd call it. Sick in the head others might, but others could fuck off.

Boy'd gone down like a pile of sticks before Ron had his phone to his ear. He stepped round the bar, round the pile of fuck-awful leftovers and what remained of their fluids and locked the pub down total. Both doors deadbolted, blinds down tight as the dial tone purred and then--

"Boss?"

--connection.

"Clean up's needed at th'pub, Pat."

"Aht th'door already, mate. Sasha got a feelin' y'd need us."

Ron's brows hitched up a hint at the dainty woman's mention. She was startling good at predicting all kinds was Pat's lady-friend; all kinds but especially calamities. It made Ron wonder if there weren't something Boy-like or Girl-like about her, but now weren't the time for that kinda idle conjecture. He rang off with thanks to Pat and his sidekick, gave the blinds one final adjustment and then turned and looked at Boy over the wreckage he'd left in his wake.

It was like he was looking at a different being altogether if the sight of him now was for direct comparison to what'd been when he'd spoke of water and bodies. Collapsed in on himself and tormented, the lad looked like he was trying to disappear and that - Ron knew through a lifetime of stories he'd never tell - was the worst place to go after an explosion of massive violence. And so he picked his way across the space towards Boy, settled maybe five foot from him so he didn't crowd him in and, in the gentlest voice he could muster, Ron spoke.

"--Oh my lad...My lad, lissen t'me...Lissen t'your Ron, yeah? Lissen aht 'ere. Come aht...I's safe now...Ain't nuffin' t'get yah...Ain't nuffin' gone wrong...Ain't nuffin' broken...Ain't no foul tha' can't be fixed...Ain't no injustice done...Defence ov self 'n place ain't f'condemnation...Lissen t'me...Come aht..."

He meant every word, but hoped more that his tone - the calm in it, the ease in his cadence, the even, settled sound might reach the poor soul in a crumpled heap on his floor before meaning caught up.

"--Pick up yer 'ead, lad. Fix on me."

[theyxlived]

@ronmanmob

"You, little one are the culmination of magnitudes. You are everything we could have ever hoped you would be. And what you become is a story yet to be written. Your father shall write it into the lines of this existence, and I will paint its beauty in the stars. You are stardust, little one. You are wildness. Our magnum opus. Eternity of one."

[uniiicornmemes]

On anon or not, ask about my muse's romantic life.

[ronmanmob]

Alarm - a modern!verse short

Ron woke with a start to the shrill shriek of a fire alarm. Alert instantly and expecting fire, he hurtled out of his bedroom in search of smoke; of a forgotten cigarette that’d betrayed him and gone for the carpet; the hob malfunctioning somehow, pumping out gas that’d somehow caught; flames licking under his front door from a building fire. Every room he checked though, from the bathroom to the living room, the kitchen, the hall, both bedrooms…They were all clear. 

And that fucking alarm was howling still. 

With a frustrated growl, Ron padded back to the kitchen at a more sedate pace than his first pass had been at. The flat’s fire alarm lived in there on the shelf near the cooker. He’d yank the battery out the bastard thing and replace it in the morning. That’s what he’d do. He’d just reach up, pluck it from the shelf, turn it over, slip the back panel off, take out the battery and-

It wouldn’t stop.

With a jolt that sent him back a good eight feet, Ron pitched the wailing contraption against the wall. It wouldn’t stop. He looked down at his hands, the square battery held in both now as they shook from adrenaline, from shock and the crest of a wave of anxiety that, when it peaked, found him with his back pressed against the wall so tight you’d not fit a fag paper between he and it. Breaths came thready and quick. Sweat beaded all over him. He looked left, right, then into the kitchen again where the fire alarm lay; its guts visible thanks to the violence he’d put on it.

It wouldn’t stop.

Why wouldn’t it sto-

A grumble beside him snapped Ron’s attention down and right. Claude the Mastiff was watching him, all black pelt, amber eyes and…calm. So calm in fact that Ron was concerned for a mo that his best boy couldn’t hear the alarm; didn’t know to be fearful. But that– That didn’t add up at all. Wanting to check, he knelt down by the dog and clicked his fingers near his right ear.

Claude looked round at the sound.

Ron swallowed thickly, realisation slowly dawning. He clicked by Claude’s left ear.

The dog looked round left.

It wasn’t Claude who couldn’t hear an alarm that was there.

It was Ron that could hear an alarm that fucking WASN’T.

With a groan come sigh, the publican-gangster sat back against the wall. He left space between his knees for Claude who, knowing what’d happened, knowing what he was seeing and what his master needed him to do, moved between them and rested his weight against Ron’s torso. Shaking hands, desperate for comfort, rub-gripped at his nape. There’d be no more sleep tonight.

[roleplayasksandmemes]

Reblog to let others know you're all right with random starters in your inbox.

[ronmanmob]

[slutty-shattered-memes]

Send "Lore!" + a muse for a bit of lore about said muse.

Send "OC Lore!" + a oc muse for a bit of lore about that oc.

Please specify muse for multimuse blogs

[rugini]

Rain.

The breeze had carried the scent inland an hour ago. He's always liked the smell. The wet freshness of it. He could do without the sea salt air but beggars can't be choosers. And it smells considerably better than the city itself does. Rotting stinking mess that it is. He hates it here. Hates it the way anyone would a place that every bad memory you have is from. But--well maybe he's tired of the whole _one with nature_ gig for the time being. A nice shower and a real bed would be nice. And so...

Feet had turned him south east. Carried him back to the city that spit him out and left him to the wolves. Or well vampires he supposes would be a more accurate term. But at least he doesn't have to pass by the exact spot. Because it would hit him wrong how much that alley hasn't changed in the last hundred years. And despite not even being in the correct burrow--a half wolf has to shake out the shiver.

Oh mate, I do apologize!

Ears prick up as the breeze shifts and swirls with the come and go of traffic. A nose twitches, and for a moment Bastian becomes blind to all else that moves, in the wake of the scent he had only recently memorized. That and---blue sharpen in the span of seconds. Focuses in on the form that's just walked into the pub across the street. Head tilting perhaps at a slightly inhuman angle. Those two smells should not be anywhere near each other. What the fuck is someone like him doing walking into a human pub? There are rules for a reason. Even Bastian knew them and most of the time followed them. Whatever that half wolf was up too couldn't be good.

Rain.

The first drops have already hit concrete. The rest following behind as the human he had met in the woods crosses back over the threshold of the pub behind the one that should not be there. And feet--while they should have continued onward. Taken him to his mother's flat--they do not. They turn him instead. Crossing the street with the herd to keep himself ambiguous. Right turn and then ducking into the little space between outside door and inside door. He can't remember what its called presently. Probably won't remember later either. Only the concept of his mother's voice.

Vestibule, little cub. It is called Vestibule.

Because the moment he opens that first door its like being hit in the face with a concrete pipe. No he won't be explaining how he knows that thank you very much. Still it takes a second. Breathing in and breathing out. Shaking the overwhelm off, to the point that for a second his hair might actually remind someone of his other self having a shake out. Not that it occurs to him. And there's a very human kind of sniff as a nose is rubbed. Okay....okay its...its really strong in here but he can do this. In and out and eventually he won't even notice it....right?

Even breathing. He's got thi--

The secondary door opens, blue shooting up to identify it. And time for a second slows down. The reason he'd come in here in the first place, walking by with a tiny brown bag. And to the humans that might notice them passing by each other it would look no stranger than any other mundane thing. But humans are blind where half wolves are not and--

A growl. Pitched deep and resonating. Too low for humans to hear. One that says, You have no ground here. The kind that has a usually unseen sigil glinting in the dying sunlight outside.

And in response there is a momentary rise of heckles but then---there it goes. And the larger rule breaker shrinks. A kind of wary 'yip' in response, Im sorry I just wanted a turn over. I won't come back. I didnt know he had claim here.

He doesn't. He could give a shit less about this place probably. But Bastian doesn't correct the assumption the other makes. Lets it be. Lets the advantage he has over most half wolf proverbially shine for a moment. The other half wolf slipping quickly out into the rain after that. Baz watching him disappear into the sheet of water.

Because he doesn't like using that particular advantage, but if he hadn't that would have turned into a pissing contest. And that is the last kind of trouble he needs right now. He's tired, still healing from wounds and while he should head back out into the storm; while he should hurry 'home' for a hot shower and a good rest---

Something else entirely catches his nose in the shutting of the secondary door. Its sweet and warm and ever so very fucking tantalizing. He hasn't eaten yet. Had planned to fix that when he got to his mother's but---feet are moving him inside before he realizes it. The pastry that the other half wolf had broken the rules for--the one Bastian currently is doing the same thing for now. He can smell why. Its fucking amazing and its got his mouth watering. Oh he has missed proper food hasn't he? The human bits of him clawing at his stomach. And well he's at the bar now. Might as well--never mind he's already sitting down. Gaze stuck on the little display box that holds the literal wolf bait.

[ronmanmob]

Deaf and blind as only a mostly uninformed human could be to the ways and means of certain of his customers, Ron ushered the gentleman he'd almost taken out on his stoop inside happily and made sure he was served what he pleased gratis - no charge, no bother, for the inconvenience of almost being flattened by a man twice his size. That patrolling Claude watched the lad like a fucking hawk slipped by him as easily and completely as the territorial negotiation the now well fed face's exit was preceded by. It was all simply well beyond the publican's ken.

What he did note though was the entrance of a new face.

The entrance and swift settling of a new face who was more than eyeing the glass cased display of pastry his darling aunt May had baked up for their patrons just an hour back. She had trays of them ready daily, all hand made, hand cut, filled and baked with the kind of skill only forty-odd years cooking and baking for a family of many, many mouths could afford. She was the heart and soul of the joint was May, the reason it'd taken off so well, Ron was sure of it. She'd never cop to that, never take away from the advertising he did and the networking he'd done and still maintained to get them both here, but without a soul no pub and eatery lived long in business and theirs wasn't only living, it was going strong. All that was to say...

He could empathise with this new fella's preoccupation.

"--Draw yah in aht th'cold, these, mate?" he mused by way of greeting, gesturing to the case and the panoply it held. There was cream ones among the lot, blackberry, almond, strawberry -- Ron weren't much a one for sweets, but even he'd been caught tempted now 'n then.

"Y'fancy one, jus' give us a nudge. Same goes f'a drink."

And with that welcome shared, the publican picked up some of the busy-work tending the bar entailed - fetching glasses out the washer and drying them ready for use; wiping the bar's top dry; scouting along its length in case anyone needed him; casting a weather eye out round the room for the same. This time he did note how Claude's attention seemed oddly fixed, the usually happily roaming dog stock still, locked on the newly arrived chap by the baked goods display. It drew a faint frown off him, but there weren't no sign of aggression off the barrel of a hound. No raised hackles. No growl. No bared teeth. Just attention that was a hair this side of too fixed for usual.

Like something about the man was flat fucking riveting.

And that...That Ron didn't understand. An easy glance in the chap's direction confirmed he had a definite rugged charm about the way he looked. For all his clothing weren't tailored to show him off he looked strong built in it, and the vibe off him even without a word spoke weren't in the least offensive. There weren't no spikes of held-in aggression Ron could read off his posture, no vibration of antsiness, no prickling discontent. He didn't feel to the publican like the type to pique Claude's defensiveness.

But fucked if the dog would let him out his damn sight.

As his master tried to solve the puzzle of him without even so much as a clue to its nature, let alone a notion about how it might be understood, the mastiff known to the man as Claude let his mouth open slightly and took a couple of quick, short in-breaths. Like the one who'd wandered in for feeding just before him, this one here was more than what human eyes perceived. Why they'd started coming here, this one's kind, the hound couldn't say. Even with his own nature being what it was, there were things he wasn't privy to. But there was more to this second new kindred sort than there had been to the one he'd run off at the door. This one had a limp's implication to his step that Claude understood and knew. Silver did that to wolves in forests now, didn't it. Silver his brave master had picked up and disposed off as soon as he rightly could.

In any other moment, Claude would have reached out in mind to the wolf in man's skin sat within an arm's reach of his master. But the man had spoken, had broken the welcoming ice like he so often did so well, and so would be listening, watching for the new one's response if one were to come. Interrupting the flow of that possible back-and-forth wouldn't help. And so, guarded but content at the absence of overt threat, the dog watched.

[ronmanmob]

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY:

[ repost do not reblog ] My muse knows how to…

bake a cake from scratch | ride a horse | drive stick | speak a second language | dance | catch a fish | play an instrument | throw a punch | build a deck | ice skate | unclog a drain | program a computer | change a flat tire | fire a gun | sew | juggle | play poker | paint | fly a kite | sculpt | write poetry | change a diaper | sing | shoot a bow and arrow | ride a bike | swim | sail a boat | do a back flip | play chess | give CPR | pitch a tent | flirt | stitch a wound | read palms | use chopsticks | write in cursive | use an electric drill | braid hair | make a campfire | make a mixed drink | do sudoku puzzles | wrap a gift | give a good massage | jump-start a car | roll their tongue | do magic tricks | do yoga | tie a tie | skip a rock | shuffle a deck of cards | read Morse code | pick a lock

stolen from @rugini

[menchmark]

[ronmanmob]

hiding behind the other and peeking around.

"AHT!"

Pat's back to the pub's doors suddenly, palms up and outstretched; Ron behind the bar but tousled, like he'd been maneuvered into place by something and was being held there. Both men thinking the same thing at once- How the FUCK did we get here?! -but unlike Pat, Ron knew. He knew part of it at least, which is why he'd barked that order when the movement in front of and round him stilled into hands that clung and a body folded up and pressed into the backs of legs; stilled into a second where he could think.

To his credit, Pat didn't argue.

Man was gone soon as he'd come.

And Ron? Ron looked round at the aftermath of what'd been an explosion of all-out panic. Puzzle books, plates of nibbles and a whole pot of tea had gone flying when Boy, frit to hell by Pat's sudden arrival, all but bent time to get off his stool, round the bar and behind Ron within what couldn't have been more than two seconds flat. He looked and saw and he listened too, to what he could catch beyond the silence that'd descended on the room when adrenaline had burned the rest away.

The radio droned away about the sports scores.

The dishwasher sloshed softly away to his right.

And Boy...He could hear Boy breathing - erratic and spiked with panic but starting to settle just a touch as the tension in the air bled slowly away. Unsure if the lad would welcome comfort through contact, despite how he'd clung onto him, Ron didn't do what instinct nipped him to and reach down towards the nearest hand he could feel fisted in his clothes. He looked down instead at the too slender young man folded close at his back and mustered in the gentlest voice he could-

"S'alrigh' mate. I gottcha...'Ee's gone... Was jus' me mate Pat, bu' 'ee's gone."

Not for the first time since meeting Boy and Beth, Ron cast silent not quite thanks but also sort of appreciation to how his mental condition made emoting tricky. It let him hide again how much anger he felt at whatever cunt had hurt this young man tucked behind him so badly that sight of a new face could do...this.

Gentle-voiced still, he asked, "----Y'wanna come aht, yeah?"

[nolegacies]

Home Is Where . . .

Plundered from [ x ] @ronmanmob

High surf and many a crash helps him dodge some of the slobber onslaught. Head snatched back at the same speed as the rest of him had moved when the crab had initially let go. Any that had achieved adherence washed off with a quick crouch near the surf. The words about how it was the dog's way of saying thank you given a nod as was polite. Though he's already turning again to snatch up his board from the sand, tuck it against his body, as the other continues on.

Speaks a lot like that one man that had come to visit the Old Man a few years ago. Billy had never seen him again but he'd looked important. Dressed all nice. A slightly more prim tilt to his accent than the man before him now and yet not by much. Nice clothes just like this man. A proper gentlemen for the modern age. Makes the back of Billy's neck itch. He didn't have gentlemanly bone in his body if anyone asked him.

Had too much grit under his nails, and scars in his skin. And in his mind if one was talking to the Old Man about it. But those are easier to pretend aren't there most days. Most days, most times--like right now. Because Yer English, ain'tcha? sticks out from the rest that follows though his head's ducking again in response to the thanks. It wasn't really a big deal. What he'd done. Just used his logic. Sometimes he wasn't half bad at it. Using logic instead of panic. But not always. Not like he used to be.

Danger Will Robinson DANGER

"Originally. Moved here to be be with my uncle when I was a kid."

The words and tone sound and feel genuine as rain, but the truth is Billy doesn't really know. Can't remember anything before he was ten. The answer learned. Memorized at Hal's request all those years ago. Because the reality is Hal hadn't set foot in Britain since being a teenager himself. Been all over every where else since but never back to England. Never there. And Billy had never had the audacity to pester the old man as too why.

"Billy."

Its sped through his name, like he almost forgot how name exchanges worked. And maybe he had for a split second there. Because sometimes wires get criss-crossed, misfire, don't remember or sometimes remember it wrong. And maybe there's a slightly uncomfortable twitch of his head. Like his neck suddenly caught up on itself, for other reason than to be a cunt. Even if its chased by a small if not air chuckle.

"Baja can be like that, mate. Meldin' pot here think they call it. "

And that bits true. Baja was as varied in its people as it was in its color of abodes. You could live between someone from Chile and on the other side a family from Ireland who was done with the cold. One reason why he liked it here. Somewhere the ocean was always a handful of steps away, and yet he could disappear into the city like just another nameless face. No one from his passed would look for him here. No one from Hal's would either. And so--he perhaps remembers right then something Hal had asked him to do more often.

"My uncle runs WalrusBone Boards off the boardwalk. You probably seen it if you've made it that way yet. If you haven't I suggest it. Least that's where all the holiday visitors usually end up. But if you want quieter uh..."

A small pause, an almost conspiratorial kind of shift. The concept of leaning a little more in Ron's direction without actually doing so. Because while he's usually very bad at "robot playing human" as one of his few friends Jake sometimes teased him, Billy has been practicing. And while men in general tended to automatically cause a sense of caution--even with the dog, there's something about this particular holiday goer that doesn't seem quite so scary. Just don't ask him to explain it.

"There's a more traditional spot just a few miles up the beach from here. Called the Dutchman."

[ronmanmob]

Ron would never claim to be able to spot folk who, like him, script-worked through certain social moments soon as he met 'em. He didn't clock it off Billy one iota, and wouldn't have reacted outside-voice-wise if he had. It weren't done, that sort of thing. You accept. You continue. End of. What he did note though was how this new person to him didn't offer a handshake when he gave over his name. It weren't no social mis-step by any means. Fuck, Ron hadn't offered one himself!

He weren't judging.

What he was doing though was learning the lay of the social land between he and Billy; reading by implication tiny little notions about what this new lad might be like as a human. He weren't gregarious, it seemed - weren't liable to reach first towards a stranger, though he seemed a friendly sort despite that. He was helpful, willing to put himself out (and endure doggy slobber) to see to an animal's wellbeing. And beyond all that deep-thinking-shit, the man'd offered out the name of a local boozer! Firmly in Ron's good books, this one was.

That first name rang a faint bell too.

"--WalrusBone Boards" Ron repeated, firming the notion up in his mind; placing it in his mental map of the area. "Y'know wha', I been past tha' once or twice" he said. "Nevah went in since- Confidentially?" There weren't no intent to copy how Billy'd leant in that amiable fraction, but Ron did similar to tell his little secret; back of the fingers by his mouth and all. "I can't surf f'shit, mate." A chuckle escaped as his fingers dropped away, Claude's leash re-wound casually to keep his hands busy. "Swim like a piana too, by 'n by" he added, the note of self-deprecation in the words all in fun. "Really well straight dahn bu' forwards?"

A snort and a shake of the head finished that thought off nicely, as did the brief, padding return of Claude. His pile of flotsam had given up a piece of driftwood he just had to show his dad, who did his duty by oo'ing and ahh'ing before hurling the thing down the beach for the excited dog to fetch.

"Bless 'im" Ron mustered, minding the dog fondly before getting his attention back on Billy. "Yer righ' abaht th'meltin' pot way'a this place" he said. "Gorgeous spot -- i's no wondah people flock from all ovvah. Y's a lucky man, livin' 'ere. I-- Really?"

A glance up saw Claude trotting back happily, drift wood in mouth. The dog looked at both men, his dad and the new face, his stubby-tailed bum wiggling happily. It was all Ron could do to huff with amusement at him.

"Since when you been speedy, aye?" he asked, adding as his speed-freak best boy plopped the stick down by Billy, "Y'don't gotta chuck it for 'im if y'don't fancy playin' along. 'Ee's jus' bein' sociable since y'de-crabbed 'im."

Almost like he understood, Claude rumbled in lolling-tongue glee and nudged the stick closer to his new possible playmate. Were he any other hound he'd have barked encouragingly, but he was his dad's best one; his first and closest. He knew sudden loud didn't do much good to the man's inside noise. And so, happy rumbles it was.

"By 'n by" Ron added, watching all this unfold between his dog and his new acquaintance. "Fank you f'th pub rec. I own one back 'ome, funnily enough, 'n wanted t'pop in local t'see wha's on offah 'n all. I'll find me way t'th Dutchman on back'a yer word, fanks mate."

[ronmanmob]

A snapshot from days gone-

Two little lads, maybe ten years old, huddled round an ashtray on a stoop outside a pub. One of them is keeping watch while the other, his brother, fishes through the fag ash and off-colour butts for something salvageable. They didn't smoke, these boys. Wouldn't for a couple'a years. But their big brother did, and their dad did, and they were dirt-broke so needed to improvise.

"Anyfin?" the lookout said, keeping his eyes out for-- something. Anything. They weren't doing wrong, weren't thieving or nuffin'. But still, he didn't feel safe.

"--Li'l bit" his brother answered, unrolling a sliver of charred paper from round the remains of what'd once been a stick'a Lambert & Butler's finest blend. He used his nail to tease out what he could, tipping it into the open baccy pouch he had between his knees.

"--Got enough t'make one yet?" the lookout asked.

A careful weighing of the pouch ensued; he with the fag-butt in his fingers giving it a tilt back and fore. "--Nuvvah couple 'n...yeah. Prob'ly."

"--Kay" the lookout mustered, shifting where he sat furtively. It was cold out today. His fingers were starting to go that specific shade of dark red that spoke both of being wind-chapped and sore at once. They'd been at this lark for a couple of hours now; skipped out on last period at school to make sure they got home with Dad's pouch as full as poss. He'd not be happy if he couldn't get at least one fag out of it, so they'd stop out, these two boys, 'til they'd scrounged enough so he could.

[ronmanmob]

[rugini]

She agrees. And maybe the slight ready to dodge tension at the corners eases back out. At least that bullet was dodged and he was not going to in fact need another drink AND a bag of ice. It would be a funny joke if he'd thought to make it into one. But if he had thought of it he wouldn't really be him would he? Just like he wouldn't be him if it didn't take him a little longer on the upswing to realize--V isn't just hugging herself.

....back bein'... 'ero...

A flicker flash of something--rage rushing through his smaller body. Blood spilling out his nose and over his lips, making him nauseas. The same little gesture the same little lift of shoulders. He hadn't wanted it exactly then but he'd okay'd it because in the moment maybe it hadn't been about him. Just like it never really was any other time after. Like it wouldn't be this time. Because when in all their lives as kid had he ever been able to tell her no? But she's talking again and--

| intializing play back | You's back bein' my 'ero ain'tcha.

Well at least that shit was working okay. That program was worth every bit of blood and sweat he'd put into it. Something a little smaller, in the sense of being called out for something you hadn't ever looked in the face straight, to his lopsided grin. Something at the corner of eyes that aren't the same as they were when he was born either. Something he had put away when it was time to grow up. Something maybe a little soft that sits all kinds weird because soft? Bastian Barton hadn't been soft since he was six years old. So a make believe hand comes up, scratches at the back of his head a bit.

"Y-yea...yea I guess."

| initializing play back | No charge f'yah on account'a 'ow I know yah, alrigh'? 'Av as much as y'need while y'tell me-

No charge...No--Wait. And brows knit more thickly together this time. A tilt to his head. Because V can do that here? And if she can, that means---he looks around. Taking the place in again. The curve of the bar top. Registers the bits of things on the walls and even the name of the place had been screaming at him. Jesus he needs sleep. Because that's what its and not this run away glitch he's been fighting since he got up yesterday morning. But before he can voice 'you own this?!' she's talking again and right---

| initializing play back |--Tell me where y've been these years, yeah?

"I..."

He stalls. Not because he doesn't want to say but because he doesn't really know where to start with that does he? And maybe blue tracks over her again. Is reminded of the motion she had made. The one he's left her hanging on for maybe an uncomfortable amount of time--but maybe he doesn't miss the fact she remembered. Remembered that--make believe fingers dont twitch, not like the real ones might have in this moment. But still there's a hitch when he does move. A change up almost from the start, a left arm put back down and a right arm coming up. It didn't sit right. Didn't sit right at all for that to be what hugs her again after so very long apart. And there's a gesture to his fingers, the universal 'bring it in'.

"Long as yer buyin' I'll fuckin' tell ya abou' anythin' ya like, V. One condition though, I get a story back yea?"

Because he wants to hear about her too doesn't he? Maybe more than he should. Wants to know what happened to her after he---after he left. After his parents had--well that's old new isn't it. Not like they have to talk about that bit. No...no just stick to the parts they missed after. Yea.

Just the parts they missed after.

[ronmanmob]

Hooked in by that gesture, that bring it in unspoke but true, Roni processed Bastian's price for his story just late enough that her face was hidden from him when her expression died off into flat nothingness; as it always did now when she weren't having to play normal for someone. Like a mote of ash landing on asphalt, she approached him and settled into the space he'd offered her; her face downturned and tucked against his shoulder, both hands allowed fingertip pressure only as they settled one round the outside of his right arm and the other on his chest - like she had done in their younger years out of respect for how little he liked or sought out contact. This time though, story for a story...it weren't just respect of him that had her holding back. The years intervening hadn't been kindly to her in any sense, but she'd not find the words to put that shower of shit to voice without a heavy dose of liquid anaesthetic.

Which is what Bastian wanted since she'd offered so nice.

Stealing just a beat longer in the cover of his shoulder so she could put her face back to rights, Roni huffed out a fond breath and stepped back into her new-old friend's sightline. The smile she met him with took work now, but unless he was hot on reading the difference in muscle tension round a woman's lips it'd be a hard spot. Words then-

"Stock's mine t'giv"

-and she gestured for him to settle wherever he pleased by the bar as she rounded it and took up her usual place behind the rough-hewn mental and plastic counter. This weren't no Up Town establishment, weren't even no Mid Town dive. It was a shaded nook carved out the side of an old shipping container with a reclaimed floor and furnishings. But it was hers. If only by squatter's rights and no one else wanting it. And it served well enough. The booze was cold and the coin was enough to keep her in more than sawdust and turned synth-milk as food. It got her by.

"S'th first part'a th'story, ain't it" Roni said, sitting a bottle of Donaghy's on the bar between them. She made no show of it despite it was one of the more expensive tipples she'd managed to acquire this turn round the market. Some Mid Towner would've missed a crate off their shipment, but they could cry her a river as far as the black eyed publican cared. Those people had more nothings than any Down Tower, never mind the amount of somethings they had. They deserved the loss so they knew what loss felt like.

Uncapping the bottle, Roni swigged a mouthful down. It burned but not too badly. There weren't no hiss out of her, no cough or wince or shudder. Then, she pushed it across to Baz invitingly.

"Picked up this place when I was abaht..." Eyes rolled up to the ceiling a second as she thought back. "Eighteen maybe. Nineteen. Couldn't do much wiv it at first bu' got me feet undah me aftah a li'le bit. Improved bits best I could wiv wha' I 'ad. 'N I've been at it since. Use it f'a bit'a coin, y'know? I's..."

Her mind clipped back somewhere nasty - somewhere with red lights and pulsing music and customers who'd wanted too much of her but who weren't allowed that. They were only to have what she'd been told to bring in and deliver to the sons of the Adult Parlour's owner. Bastian had known her in those days, which in hindsight...turned Roni's guts. They'd been so fucking young then, so mixed up in back alley shit they'd only half understood and all that to earn scratch enough to take home to their parents. She'd never clocked 'til years later that it weren't betting papers she'd been delivering - that it was Boost and Blue Glass, Deep Dive and Glitter. She'd never clocked--

"--I's bettah now."

Better than it had been. Better than then.

"Work f'meself, yeah?" That smile of hers that'd been on rickety scaffolding got that bit stronger round the edges. She gave the bottle of Donaghy's another poke. It was green with a spiral stem and a picture of a snake on its side. Your end of the rainbow was its tagline. Roni'd never seen a real one'a those.

"Your turn" she prompted encouragingly. "Wha's got yah in my bar, 'ero-man?"