#rocket-domino

[mewmewtwo]

I’m going to be roleplaying as Ai again! But eh maybe not Domino.

I should make use of my Mew, too. I used her for only a very short while…

Add my accounts! aitwo rocket-domino rainxbringer

[rocket-domino]

I'M STILL HERE. Seriously someone do a starter with me.

[rocket-domino]

New layouts for my RP blogs! Ai (Amber): aitwo.tumblr.com Mew: [email protected] I will respond to some of my asks tomorrow. I know I've been way too OOC lately (and I know that's annoying, sorry!), but luckily I'm feeling inclined to use this muse again. I missed Domino. If you want, feel free to also check out my non-RP blog dedicated to Mew and Mewtwo: Fuck Yeah, the Mews! 

[aitwo]

New layouts for my roleplay blogs! Domino: rocket-domino Mew: rainxbringer If you want, feel free to also check out my non-RP blog dedicated to Mew and Mewtwo: Fuck Yeah, the Mews! 

[rocket-domino]

|| / private RP / Jessie and Domino

[OOC: Posting it this way so it can be a talk thread. Don't worry about matching the post length unless you want to! I just made it long for the sake of introduction.] “I can’t believe this. This is beyond ridiculous!” Domino voiced her annoyance out loud. She rambled to the stale air, the putrid beige walls surrounding her, and the sounds of an old heating unit that buzzed on and off. Her medial nerves still throbbed from the double-lock handcuffs that subdued her as she was pushed into the police cruiser. The troopers insisted that her handcuffs be made as tight as possible, nearly cutting off circulation.  She recalled the exchange: "You've been one naughty girl," a cop said as he twisted the handcuffs around her. "We have been chasing you for god knows how long." Normally, she would have been able to flee. It was not her first encounter with law enforcement – on the contrary, those pigs had been tracking her down for years, and every so often she found them circling her like a pack of mightyena on the hunt. Yet this time they used weapons, and even Domino – the Rocket known for her wit and athleticism – could not outfox them. Now in that cell block, Domino scanned her eyes across every inch, plotting for any way to escape. Damn it, she thought. I’m trapped. There were no windows to overlook the outside world. The only window was small and within the heavy metal door, its view into a hallway. The walls were constructed of concrete. She also noticed that there were no beds – instead, there was one filthy metal frame bolted to the floor in battleship gray. It appeared to have never been washed or sanitized, polluted with the sweat, spit and other bodily fluids of previous inmates. There were two blankets bundled up in the corner, and Domino knew they had never been washed. They reeked of body odor. Around her, the recycled air blasted between cold and hot – it was obvious that the heating system was in need of repair. Within five minutes the temperature ranged from 45 degrees to an overwhelming 95 or 100 degrees, allowing no time for her body to adjust. The constant change gave her a headache. The toilet was a durable utilitarian design that she had never seen before, its lackluster features on the same level as an outhouse. It was a dull box-like structure that made direct contact into the floor. Yet more disturbingly, the sink and water faucet were the same entity – nothing more than a button that when pressed came forth a stream – and it was built into the top of the toilet tank. To drink water thus meant that she would need to lean over the toilet. It was degrading. Yet perhaps most disturbing to the woman was the realization that she had no sense of time. The were no clocks, and the fluorescent lights burned the room in shades of blinding white (indeed, jail was not dark despite what television suggested). The absence of windows appeared to be a tool to psychologically break her down – if she was there for a long time, she would not know what month or season it had become. Domino had been denied her one phone call. Or perhaps she would receive that freedom in time, but the police wanted to drive her mad. But who cared? Who would she even call anyway? Her first instinct was to contact the Boss, but he would probably scream through the wires at her failure. To hear his disapproval would have perhaps been more daunting than no conversation at all. She curled her legs up against her body, sitting on a dirty floor with her head against the wall. She needed to think – she needed to calculate how to get to get out of there. A few minutes (hours?) later, Domino was alarmed by the sounds of another voice. It was clearly that of a woman, and the blonde traced through her memories in an attempt to connect the voice to the person. Then she realized who the voice belonged to. Oh… oh damn! The door opened, but the incident was too quick for Domino to bolt. A scarlet-haired woman was thrown into the cell, and before anything could be said, the door slammed shut. There was the loud click-click of the key turning over the lock. “Well, now my day officially sucks,” Domino huffed with sarcasm. “Pleasure to be here with you of all people, Jessie.”

Lovely. She was locked up, stuck with a person she could tolerate for perhaps thirty seconds, and it was her "time of the month."

[rocket-domino]

Pun day is fun day.

It was Pun Day at the Team Rocket bar, an excuse for the shoddy place to rack up money while drunkards spewed their mouths with the first things that came to mind. For most of the time, the blonde sat in the corner by herself fighting off the advances of men ("I'll give you a reason to prepare for trouble"). Yet eventually, buzzed on cheap beer, she found herself taking the stage to overlook her colleagues. Yet first, she grabbed salt shaker from the table. She also pulled a battery from her bag (because... batteries can be useful?). "So let me tell you all a story," she slurred. "I got arrested once, okay? Want to know for what?" She held the salt shaker and battery high to let them glisten under the lights. "A-salt and battery. Hard times."

[kismetoccursus-blog]

ѻ

Send ѻ and our muses will be handcuffed together, but the cuffs won’t come off!

—{✘} “Well, good news, bad news.”

"Good news: we got away from the cops." The grunt brushed her hair over her shoulder. "Bad news—we’re still cuffed together."

[rocket-domino]

Dear Diary, The psychiatrist said cigarettes are my bane; my addiction. Yet to me they are my medication. It’s either that or popping Effexor, and all that red tablet did was mix with alcohol for one hell of a headache. Of course, it was foolish for me to even mix those things together... I just don't care. Why should the psych care if I smoke? Cigarettes get me through the day. I was mostly abstinent – oh god, it sounds like sex – from the nicotine for a year, but there’s too much going on in this psyche, and I think all the memories brought me back to taking in toxins and breathing out smoke. The relapse arrived suddenly with come hither swirling around in smog. I bummed one from a colleague. A lot of Rockets smoke, I don’t see the problem with it when you consider that this job can land you in jail. The alarm went off at 6:30. I wanted to call out. Awful, shitty mood. Thoughts even I can’t bring to paper. But I had already missed work twice this month and the Boss was bound to rip me apart over the phone, so I got into my uniform and went out the door for another day in purgatory. To be honest, the day went fine but I left feeling empty anyway… all the routine just got to me… and I went down to the store, pulled out a $10, and got my lovely Marlboros. I missed smoking. I remember thinking that as I fell into the whirlpool of relapse again, bringing that tube to my lips, inhaling it like a lover. I went so long – and why? I always craved them. And somehow now my mind seems clearer than ever, and my body feels like it is a part of me when I cough. I missed the talks I had with other smokers. Missed watching the haze cross over the moon on nights like this one. Even missed having something to hold if I get lost in the television. Missed feeling in-control, even if addiction is really the opposite and I am just deluding myself. Missed feeling something. The Boss is going to be pissed when he realizes that I’m back into the habit. What a hypocrite, he does the same thing. But he thinks it’s wrong for me because I’m young and gorgeous and an agent. Who the hell cares? There’s a little girl inside of me who begs for me to stop. She tells me journey down another road; to take a detour away from this one that will surely lead to a tragic outcome. But I ignored her… she never has done me any good. I think I should petition for a leave, make up some elaborate story. I doubt Human Resources will approve of it and I know he will be pissed, but I just don’t care what they think anymore. I’m surprised I even managed to get out of bed this morning. I’m tired of crushing a decent cigarette underneath my heels as he walks by, glancing at me, salivating like I’m meat at the butcher shop. I shouldn’t have to hide this from him. If I crush a cigarette I want it to be for my own reasons, my own urge to survive… not like I can feel that anymore. I cannot tell him that I never got better, that the psych he hired has failed to help me. I don’t want to deal with pill-pushers. I don’t want to deal with Team Rocket. I don’t want to deal with any of this bullshit anymore. Maybe a therapist could help me… but where would I even start with that? How does therapy even work, anyhow? Do I just sit there on an old chair with my gaze upon a shitty Medicaid-supported professional or do I look about at the tacky paintings on the wall? What do I say? What happens if I say too much? I can’t trust myself to go back to work if I leave for a while. But I have no choice – I have to work. It is impossible for me to be a goodie-goodie, my façade at the Institute will eventually fall apart, and it’s not like I can just depend on some random man to help me out in exchange to look pretty. As of this moment, a cigarette dangles in one hand while I script this entry with the other. My mind feels at ease… so open… so pure. This is my form of meditation, my insult to when I visited the Buddhist shrines as a child with the thought that I needed to let go. This is so not at all what the Buddha meant with those words. My sensible side knows all I have done is bound myself to this earthly realm and to oppressive thoughts through addiction rather than a fight for recovery… but apathy won in this war… It is chilly tonight, a sweet release from that humidity I have struggled with all summer. I will end this entry now – it is finally time for me to break out a sweater and slippers, enter that outside world with the moon that greets me, and feel the wind dance with the smoke. I feel… free. No… perhaps I don’t. - Domino