{ASK/RP BLOG} --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- {MOD AUTHOR – ADAM V.} --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- {MUSE - SCRATCH} --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- {I HAVE NO OWNERSHIP OVER ANY IMAGES.} --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- { TAG - LostYears } --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- { sometimes NSFW / 18+ }
Apologues for the lack of activity over here, I've been terribly busy. But I'm returning gradually to RP ( in this community and beyond ), so expect updates and such.
In the meantime, here's The New Vegas Theme done Synthwave style.
"Yo Scratch- lemme borrow your bike for like..." Cicero checks his watch, "Forty-five minutes."
A twisted, irksome feeling crawled around in his throat at that request. The gall of Cicero, to ask him for his ride made Scratch almost dumbfounded. Finally, Scratch answered.
“No, absolutely fucking no.”
The Fiend spat out with acid on his tongue. It was no secret that he was protective over his bike. It was his, his freedom, his labor of time and love that made the engine live. Others were not so polite as Cicero. Scratch answered always with lead, of the swing of wrench against their skull.
But he was curious why Cicero wanted to “borrow” it. The answer would still be no, but he wanted to know.
“Tell me, why you want my bike? What so important?”
Sorry for the radio silence. I've been dealing ( and struggling ) with several problems. I've also came down with a nasty case of Influenza. It's on the way out, but my whole system is wrecked.
Hopefully, by Monday or Tuesday I should be doing better.
The Fiend eyed the gesture, then Lucy. Awkwardness aside, his mind was thinking about a way to pry that computer off her wrist. Just, not by such violent means as sawing her arm off. He’s not that vicious, or desperate.
A grin soon graced his scar-touched face. He returns the gesture, just for appearances. Trust, just for now.
“Yeah, I promise.”
Raising his hand, Scratch locked his pinky to Lucy’s. The moment enough seemed to ease up the awkwardness, just enough. Still, Scratch had in mind to betrayal that trust eventually. After all, it boils down to survival. That’s been his whole life, tragically enough. Right now, he wanted her help, then maybe he can decide what to do.
Upon hearing the idea, he liked it. It was worth a try.
“Be my guest, try it out. Just might be what the bike needs.”
With the gesture hopefully acting as the tension-breaker between them as she wanted, Lucy got to work plugging her Pip-Boy into the motorcycle. The screen filled with various components and signals, and a status bar showed exactly what they had already determined: the connection between the bike and the cells wasn’t quite strong enough. Lucy fiddled with one of the dials, tuning her device to increase the power bit by bit while adjusting when needed.
“Can you rev it up for me? It’ll help me see how much we need to increase the connection before it secures.” The signal was getting stronger, but still not enough. If she just twisted this knob here, then pressed this button…
Lucy kept him in her periphery. Just in case. She wasn’t so clueless as to think a gesture originating from childhood would keep him from attacking her as soon as he got what he wanted. The best-case scenario was for this to work and then for him to take off without attempting violence. Or rather, the best-best-case scenario was for this to work, for him to repay her with gratitude (and a spare Stimpak if he could afford to part it), and then be on his way.
She wouldn’t hold her breath, though.
With the engine revving, she saw the status bar climb from the red into the orange, slowly approaching green. Lucy grinned. “It’s working! Keep it going. We’re nearly there.” Whether it would hold the connection long enough for it to latch on without the help of her Pip-Boy remained to be seen, but this was a very promising start.
Scratch moved around and started the bike. It hums, but the sound ( vibrations ) were weak and fading. Following Lucy’s advice, he started revving the bike gradually, carefully. He was concerned about the connection burning out.
The Fiend’s eyes went from Lucy, to her pip-boy. There was some small reservations about betraying her. After all, he was not in the habit of hurting charitable people. Then again, this was a dog-eat-dog world, survival of the fittest. He just needed time to think about it, that’s all.
Hearing it was working made him smile with joy. They just needed some more juice, and the bike should be good to go. Right now, all his hopes are looking up, going his way. Of course, he had Lucy to thank for that. It just improves the odds of him not hurting Lucy.
Eventually, the connection was secured. The microfusion cells were working at full capacity. Turning off the bike, Scratch seemed very pleased. The Fiend’s scar-touched face smiled with good hope.
“You’re a life saver . . .”
There was a moment of hesitation in his eyes. Soon, his hand was outstretched earnestly. A sign of thanks and trust.
“By the way, Scratch is my name.”
He hoped she wouldn't recognize that name. Then again, considering how she acted, she was pretty green to the surface. She doesn't know his face graces wanted posters. The Fiend looked towards the road ahead, his mind thinking about how many miles it was to the next town.
“Look, I have some caps if you want it. But uh, I can also offer you a ride to the next town. Beats walking, huh?”
"And yet? That didn't stop you from stopping by," he smiled. "What I require is just a small favor," he smiled, "a diode," he whispered. "I would like for you to track it down for me," he said. "If the price is right, of course," he whispered. "You could name your price, and it's yours for what I ask," he said. House sat up just a bit to reach for his pack of smokes, placing one between his lips, tasting the dry, bitter taste of paper that had grown stale in the last couple of days since he hadn't opened it due to not finishing the last box. "Do you require a drink?" he asked. "Name your poison," he said. He poured himself a bit of whisky, waiting for what the other had to say.
The promise of payment eased his concerns just enough. Still, Scratch had his suspicions, his small doubts. After all, he hasn’t survived this long trusting everyone, and everything. House makes his skin crawl, but the promise of money keeps him here.
“Whiskeys . . . fine.”
Carefully, he sat down across from House. Still, his eyes expressed that quite awe and silent fear. All his years in Vegas, Scratch has heard many tales about Robert House. Tall tales, outrageous stories that blended speculation, lies and the truth together. Now, here he was, flesh and blood and wearing an elegantly tailored suit.
“You want me to recover a Diode? What’s so special about it?”
Scratch knew what a diode was. After all, one of his hobbies involves taking apart robots. Though he wasn’t smart enough to make his own robots, he knew what made them work. He knew about the guts: the wires, vacuum tubes and batteries that keep them going.
“Ouroboros? It’s Viper, something about a city or afterlife. No fucking clue, honestly.”
Scratch gained some insights about The Vipers through Hiltja, who was once a member. She spoke about The Great Sanke, about all that insanity, abuse and coercion.
He can understand why she ran. How, being with The Fiends might seem a step up in sanity. He doesn’t try pushing her for information, she hates being reminded of her home. Of Lotan. Of Mother.
The Fiend leans against the rusted out corvega, his eyes looking west towards the mountains. Miles from anything, this was wild country. Too many risks, too many dangers.
“You heading on the highway? That’s suicide, if you ask me. Too many gangs walk the road.”
The Fiend spoke, as he held the empty Jet cannister. Right now, a hit would do him some good. A smooth cure for the nerves.
Scratch tries to suppress the almost nervous awe for House. Never has his imagination ever conceived of this meeting. The Fiend never saw himself being that lucky, or misfortunate.
He summoned a smile, trying his best to act cool and sane. But right now, he just wanted to walk out of here and never look back.
“Uh look . . . I can’t think of why you would wanna talk to me. I’m not special. I’m nothing.”
❝ The world’s a little blurry, or maybe it’s my eyes ❞ Mairwen frowns as she stares into the glass of… Was it whiskey this time? She couldn’t remember. She sighed, knocking the rest of it back and throwing the now empty glass behind her, leaving it to crash against the floor of the Cocktail Longue. ❝ The friends I’ve had to bury… They keep me up at night ❞
{ The shatter of glass went unnoticed. Scratch was laid out, sprawled out across the couch. On his chest sat his share of spirits. He marveled about the ice; it was rare luxury for him. It was melting away in the cool, golden brown grog. Everything is fleeting, he thought. }
{ He didn’t think twice about Mairwen’s invitation. High up, above the dirt, the Lucky 38 was almost paradise. Air conditioning and silk sheets, luxuries only barons and presidents enjoyed, now enjoyed by Mairwen. She earned it, every bit. }
{ Yet despite this skyscraper palace, she seemed down. Despite the scotch, or whiskey, Scratch could see and feel the sadness. He could relate with her words. Sitting aside his crystal glass, Scratch sat upright, near Mairwen. He expressed empathy, despite his scars. }
“Holding on to it hurts. It doesn’t help you much.”
❝You know…❞ Mairwen started to speak, then stopped, standing up and swaying a little bit as she walked over to him and the small hoard of liquor bottles he had next to him. She hummed, head tilted to one side as she stared first at him, then the bottles, then back at him.
Sighing, she plopped herself down next to the couch, resting her head on it next to him. ❝If I don’t hold on, who will? Wasteland forgets too easily.❞
A slight frown of sadness touched his lips. Looking away, Scratch reached for his drink and drank. He held the glass, as he pondered Mairwen’s words.
Since the end of innocence, he’s been trying to run away from remembering. The chems he takes are for that effort. Yet no matter how much he hits the jet, the past always comes back.
Maybe, he should try facing it. To remember the good and the bad for some purpose. Maybe, he doesn’t have the courage.
“ . . . Hold long, though?”
The Fiend asked, as he looked at Mairwen. His eyes spoke of pain the words cannot express.
Giving Lucy room, Scratch remained cautious of the other. Sure, Lucy seemed nice enough ( too nice, honestly ), but she was willing to help. Then again, he survived because of his distrust of anyone and everything. All these years his paranoia has kept him alive. But, right now, he could have some faith in a stranger.
“Microfusion cells can’t make the connection. Powers there, but somehow the flow is weak.”
On the ground, Scratch had his tools laid out on a ragged and grease-stained towel. There were three microfusion cells, boxy and labeled with the cautionary radiation symbol. He seemed well equipped, having what he needs for basic maintenance. The guts of the bike was complex, with parts coming from other bikes, other brands.
“First, I thought it was just bad fusion cells. But uh, these three are all good. Quality stuff.”
That he stole in the last town he came from. Smashed a whiskey bottle across the head of a store clerk and robbed him as he bled. Barbaric as that sounds, least he didn’t kill him.
Casually, his glance lingered on Lucy. Again, he doesn’t really see vault dwellers, unless they come from the north. Those types aren't really nice to be around.
“You're not from Vault City, by any chance? Right?”
His eyes also lingered on her pip-boy. He knew the price for working models can go.
“Vault City? No, I’ve never heard of it.” Which wasn’t surprising considering she’d been born and raised in Vault 33. The only time she’d ever been on the surface before now was when her mother took her and Norm to a place she couldn’t name. The memories were hazy at best; the only image that ever came to mind was playing in a field where she first felt the warmth of sunlight.
“There’s probably a disconnect somewhere, but I could try and give it a boost. See if a surge will override the blockage.” She held up her wrist, showing off the Pip-Boy he was already eyeing. People did that a lot out here.
“Just pinky promise you won’t cut my arm off for this.” On the same hand, she held out her little finger, hoping to cut through any tension that remained in this first meeting. Icebreakers were an important gesture between strangers, as they had been proven to be an effective way to establish rapport, reduce awkwardness, and introduce a sense of ease to the interaction.
“With your permission, I’d like to connect my Pip-Boy to your motorcycle and see if we can juice it up that way. Might be what the cells need to latch onto the connection and hopefully stay that way." Worth a shot, right?
The Fiend eyed the gesture, then Lucy. Awkwardness aside, his mind was thinking about a way to pry that computer off her wrist. Just, not by such violent means as sawing her arm off. He’s not that vicious, or desperate.
A grin soon graced his scar-touched face. He returns the gesture, just for appearances. Trust, just for now.
“Yeah, I promise.”
Raising his hand, Scratch locked his pinky to Lucy’s. The moment enough seemed to ease up the awkwardness, just enough. Still, Scratch had in mind to betrayal that trust eventually. After all, it boils down to survival. That’s been his whole life, tragically enough. Right now, he wanted her help, then maybe he can decide what to do.
Upon hearing the idea, he liked it. It was worth a try.
“Be my guest, try it out. Just might be what the bike needs.”
{{ Just finished this story. It's been in the works for some time now. But, I'm glade to finally release it. }}
The morning came numbly, without concern. He searched for matches.
Nursing a flame, Scratch raised and ignited his cigarette. A buzz and calmness overcame him. He discarded the match, thinking nothing else.
Relaxed, Scratch stretched out his arms against the jungle gym. He stood like some ragged scarecrow. The frame of The Fiend was lazy, having just survived a night’s worth of debauchery. The memory of which escaped him.
Bloodshot eyes were concealed behind dark sunglasses. He didn’t know where the glasses came from but liked them. Standing there, he let the day pass on by.
The Doldrums was a boring place of dead ends and lost causes. The history of which was lost on Scratch and the residents. Row after row, people crammed into these old apartments. Two stories high, built by the lowest bidder. The Fiend was surprised they still stood, despite time and violence.
Slowly and surely, Scratch’s cigarette was vanishing little by little. The ash collected at his feet. Time came for him to leave and say goodbye. Dropping the cigarette, Scratch grinds it into the ground with his boot. He started off, crossing the playground and heading South.
Section housing gave way to cookie cutter ranch homes. All of which looked rundown and nearly deserted. Yet, inside some lingered a few lost souls. Chem addicts and other malcontents lingering among the ruin. The gun on his belt gives some peace of mind.
Taking a turn, Scratch entered an alleyway. The ground was littered with trash. An old tattered green tarp decorated one of the fences. A vagrant wearing a faded multicolored bathrobe searched through a garbage can. Tipping it over, he delved his cracked and bandaged hands into the mound of trash.
Scratch gave him little thought. The vagrant paid the same.
Then, something appeared in the corner of his eye. The sound of chain unraveling. A black, snarling shape, barreling towards the fence line. Scratch turned and jumped with startled fright. At the fence, there was a vicious black dog. The dog barked and barked, growling at The Fiend. Desperate, it started biting the fence line. A snarling killing machine, separated by a weak and neglected fence. Scratch stared into the barking maw of that wild dog, seeing the many teeth. So many Teeth.
Instinctively, Scratch stepped away from the fence and the dog. Cautious eyes watched the dog bite and press against the fence. It couldn’t break the fence; it couldn’t escape. A long chain was attached to the collar, keeping the dog tied to a stake in the dead lawn.
The fear leaves Scratch, as he relaxes and laughs.
“Whatcha gonna do?”
The Fiend jests while staring the hound down as it barks and snarls. The dog’s eyes screamed hunger, aggression. Glancing around, The Fiend found a discarded beer bottle and soon threw it against the fence. It breaks, sending the dog cowering back as it resumes barking.
Scratch had better things to do. A life to live, as wasted as it was.
He moves on, ignoring the howls and snarls of the animal. Exiting the alley, he soon heard a door opening from the house with the dog. The sounds of yelping, the nothing. Scratch looked back. He thinks nothing and goes on his way into the burning day.
Back again, partying again with familiar company. Scratch spent the night in the arms of purchased comfort. By morning, he was bored and left before breakfast. The idea of cram and fried eggs wasn’t enough to keep him grounded. He heads back again, towards the alleyway. It wasn’t his first choice, but he wanted to avoid some Scorpion thugs. Sure, they’re cowards. Piss for Blood.
Scratch was just too hungover for it. The headache doesn’t help.
Again, he goes down the same alleyway. Again, near the house. Again, with the dog. The trash can from earlier was left on its side.
The black dog heard, smelled, Scratch coming down the alleyway. It was sleeping by the fence and soon rose up. A few guttural yelps came from the dog. Soon, it was back to barking and snarling again. Scratch passed by, greeting the other with a sarcastic tune.
“Morning, you lousy fucking mutt.”
Scratch kicked dirt towards the fence as the dog barked. It seemed hungry, very hungry. Yet, there were other curious things. The dog’s hind leg looked hurt. It stumbled, barely keeping the leg up enough.
The Fiend stared and thought what might’ve happen. But he doesn’t care enough. He doesn’t connect the dots just yet. Lack of empathy and old childhood fears were to blame.
Scratch leaves, ignoring the barks. Soon, behind him he hears the drunk screaming of some angry man. The dog barks and barks until it yelps and whimpers. Then, nothing.
Days pass and Scratch is once again in The Doldrums. Again and again, this boring corner of New Vegas keeps bringing him back. Then again, NCR doesn’t come around here. Nobody likes soldiers. Then again, nobody likes him either. He had an argument with his lady friend that resulted in him being kicked out.
He doesn’t need to walk down this alleyway. He doesn’t have to. But something tells him to see the black dog again. To see that snarling beast. Maybe, Scratch just wanted to taunt the animal some more. Once he reached the fence, his eyes found something else.
The dog was sprawled out in the backyard. It’s breathing slowly; weak and lethargic. It doesn’t pay any mind to Scratch, or to the countless flies swarming it.
It’s dying.
It was wounded. Someone has been taking a switch to the dog. Beating it near death.
For once, the fear wasn’t enough to smother his heart. He felt for the dog, despite his own personal fear.
Enough so, Scratch hoped the fence and walked over to the dog. Sure, there was some hesitation. The dog raised its head, barely keeping eye contact with Scratch. It laid its head back down and whimpered. It scared of him. Scared of people. Scratch looked over the animal and soon, starting undoing the collar.
He figured the animal deserved to live. Deserved something better than this.
That’s when he hears the screen door open and close.
Standing at the back door, was a brutish slob. He wore an oiled stained coat, with tattered Sunday slacks and a filthy white tank top. He wore chewed up slippers and glared at The Fiend. In his hands, was a baseball bat.
“You the fucker who keeps walking back here? Aren’t ya, you stupid fucker.”
Scratch stands up, poised to fight this dumb bastard. Sure, he’s shedding blood over a dumb dog, but that was good enough. Besides, this was one prick who needed a beating from someone his own size. So, The Fiend started goading him.
“Got any words better than fucker? You dumb sack of shit.”
Scratch asked, as he sees the anger in the man becoming all-consuming. The slob’s face twists into rage as he moves off the porch. He spewed profanity as he swung at Scratch with his baseball bat. The Fiend, though tired, was quick enough to dodge the attack and slam his right fist into the fat gullet of the bastard. The man crumples, his grip loosened and the bat falls. Rising up, Scratch punches him once more, slamming his fist straight into his ugly, hateful face. Blood appeared. The nose was broken and blood spewed out from the nostrils. The man is still screaming blasphemes, useless curses, as he struggled with The Fiend.
But he was not strong. Or brave, really. Though his abuse was terrible, he could never harm someone who had fight in them. Or someone who could stand up to him. He was a coward.
Scratch pushed him back, sending the man tumbling back and falling on his ass. Now he was scared. Now he was begging. Scratch continued his attack. He started kicking the man, slamming his cleats straight into his stomach. The man was on the ground, raising his hands and begging as The Fiend beats him.
By the end, the man was barely conscious. Just a bloodied loser who overestimated his own ability. His face was red and the blood mixed with the filth and dirt from the dust-up. Scratch could kill him, but he figured that would be a waste of time.
Moving back to the dog, Scratch freed the animal from the stake and wrapped him up in the beaten man’s jacket.
There was fear, anxiety in carrying an animal he was always scared of. He remembered when he was seven, a dog attacked him. It bit him on his leg, leaving scars. That experience painted his opinion of man’s best friend. He still hated dogs, he never could see himself being friendly with one. But he hated how the black dog was treated. In a way, Scratch knew what it was like to be staked and trapped.
He knew what it was like to be beaten.
He knew what it was like to have nobody come and save you.
At least, he could save the dog.
To Freeside, he managed to get help from The Followers. One doctor, a veterinarian of sorts, helped the dog and said it should recover eventually. It’s been abused though, used for dog fights and by the owner’s aggression.
The Fiend paid, then again, he was paying with other people’s money. But he paid, all the same.
A dumb fantasy entered his mind about taking the dog with him. That he could keep him and feed him, give him an okay life.
But Scratch knew he could not be good enough. He knew the dog needed better care. Here, it could have an okay life.
“We have blueberry, raspberry, ginseng, sleepy time, green tea, green tea with lemon, green tea with lemon and honey, liver disaster, ginger with honey, ginger without honey, vanilla almond, white truffle, blueberry chamomile, vanilla walnut, constant comment and earl grey.”
“Wow, that’s some fancy shit.”
The Fiend’s tone was dry, unimpressed with the many options Piper listed. He never had tea and honestly, he could go forever without it. Though, he should try at least one item. One something to satiate his own curiosity.
“How’s the liver disaster?”
Sure, the name was a label warning. But his liver has plenty of problems already.
The Fiend spoke as he noted the other’s tone. He drinks from his beer mug, the froth of the drink gracing his upper lip. He wipes it away as he grins.
“I mean, whatcha furious exactly about? This involve me or . . . . someone else maybe?”
Always casual, Scratch made the bar booth his home from home. Salted pine nuts and beer, a simple feast. He was already four beers deep but still conscious.
Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (2010) Prompts
Directed by: Edgar Wright
Starring: Micheal Cera, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Kieran Culkin, Chris Evans, Brie Larson
“I’m in lesbians with you.”
“BREAD MAKES YOU FAT?!”
“You were once vegan, but now you will ve-GONE!”
“…have you heard of Pac-Man?”
“If you want something bad, you have to fight for it.”
“You have to overcome any and all obstacles that lie in your path. You can do it!”
“We’re here to make you think about death and get sad and stuff!”
“I got a breathalyzer and a badass dream.”
“I’ve liked you for a thousand years.”
“I can’t wait until I see you.”
“I can’t believe what I saw on the telescreen.”
“I am so sad, so very, very sad.”
“This next one is called ‘We Hate You, Please Die.”
“Love don’t stink like that cottage cheese.”
“I’ll take you to the dump, ‘cause your my queen.”
“I’ll show you the sites, you know you wanna ride.”
“We’ll pass the mansions by.”
“Drive right through the needle’s eye.”
“When I’m around you, it feels like I’m on drugs. Not that I do drugs! Unless you do drugs, in which case I do them all the time. All of them.”
“That gossipy bitch.”
“If you want something bad, you have to fight for it.”
“[Y/N], if your life had a face, I would punch it.”
“Step up your game, [Y/N]. Break out the L-word.”
“You’re too good for him. Run.”
“Hi, I was thinking of asking you out, but then I realized how stupid that would be. So, do you wanna go out sometime?”
“I just woke up and you were in my dream.”
“You will pay for your insolence!”
“Hey, check it out, I learned the bass line from Final Fantasy II.”
“Well, I’m a little bi-FURIOUS.”
“YOU PUNCHED ME IN THE BOOB.”
“Hah. That’s actually hilarious.”
“I didn’t realize there was good music until, like, two months ago!”
“I don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“So, uh, you guys doing anything fun while you’re in town?”
“YOU COCKY COCK! YOU’LL PAY FOR YOUR CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY!”
“Look, I’ve dabbled in being a bitch.”
“I was really hoping to just…leave it all behind me.”
“Don’t you talk to me about grammar.”
“I dislike you, capishe?”
“It’s milk and eggs, bitch.”
“…chicken isn’t vegan?”
“You kicked my heart in the ass.”
“For the record, I am so pissed off for you right now.”
“Have you ever dated someone who wasn’t a total ass?”
“If it makes you feel better, you’re the nicest person I’ve dated.”
“I don’t have all the answers, okay! I’d just like to try and live in the moment if I can.”
“Hey, is [NAME] here?”
“You know what? They just left.”
“We have blueberry, raspberry, ginseng, sleepy time, green tea, green tea with lemon, green tea with lemon and honey, liver disaster, ginger with honey, ginger without honey, vanilla almond, white truffel, blueberry chamomile, vanilla walnut, constant comment and earl grey.”
“Hello again, friend of a friend.”
“Send you my love in the wire, lift you up every time.”
“Sorry. Dying’s gotta suck.”
“I just wanted something simple. I’m sorry it had to end this way.”
“Maybe I’m not the one you should have been fighting for.”
“You’re not alone.”
“This club sucks. I’ve got beef. Let’s do it.”
“No. I wanna fight you for me.”
“You made me swallow my gum. It’s going to be in my digestive tract for SEVEN YEARS!”
“I’ll tell you what you are: A PAIN IN MY ASS.”
“Do you know how long it took me to get everyone’s contact information so I could form this stupid group? Like, two hours! TWO HOURS!”
“They have this incredible French toast with, like, bananas on it, and you get bacon on the side.”
