estivates: (Default)
estivates ([personal profile] estivates) wrote in [community profile] bakerstreet2015-04-23 12:46 am

( brrrrrr )

it's quiet
and the snow's beautiful tonighta winter open meme


stage i; none, streets are already blanketed in white.
stage ii; very light and intermittent.
stage iii; light - moderate. lasts longer periods.
stage iv; continuous, heavy snowfall.
stage v; the hardest of cores - blizzards, snowstorms, you name it.


① fuck the police, this is the best time for a walk. hope you've got a nice thick coat on.

② stranded in the buttcrack of nowheresville? weren't you watching the time? now you've gone and missed that last bus out of there. or maybe you're lost, somehow. what do?

③ literally chilling, in this weather, is quite easy to do. sitting around relaxing in it is a wee more difficult, but sometimes much more enjoyable, especially if shelter can be found. the snow is beautiful to watch, after all.

④ the weather's not going to stop you. your snow fort's packed full of ammo and ready to go. those aren't snow angels over there; they mark where the poor souls you've downed have fallen. be careful with that snowman's head!!

⑤ you're about fifty miles from civilization but there's a roof over your head, so never mind the chilly draught, right? right. you mightn't be the only one lucky enough to stumble upon this little shelter, though. remember to share the blanket.

⑥ everyone stuck outside should be jelly. you've got a fireplace and hot cocoa and damn if it isn't awesome. a heater's not quite so romantic, but it'd do. there'd better be a backup generator in case the power trips.

⑦ mix and match, or make up your own.

- from krystaliske @ memebells
pridegoeth: (incognito)


[personal profile] pridegoeth 2015-04-23 03:40 pm (UTC)(link)
He hates the cold. To be fair, cold is just one in a very long and carefully tallied list of things that Dr. Otto Octavius hates. His reasons are legitimate enough, though, as he no longer has a warm and comfortable home to retreat to, and the metal around his torso and up his spine that anchors the actuators tends to absorb the ambient temperature, driving icicles up his back and into bone.

He grumbles to himself, quietly, as he rummages in a big trashbin for discarded electronics and wire. It's not the normal kind of prize a scruffy vagabond in a battered coat and hat goes dumpster diving for, although the general muttered litany against humanity is par for the course. When a man pushes a woman into the mouth of the alley, trying to stifle her scream, the bulky figure hanging over the edge of the dumpster makes him pause. Whatever the man intends to do with the woman against her will, a witness could be a wrench in the works.

Octavius himself seems to pay no attention at all, although there's a pause in his grumbling. Something glows faintly, reddish, at the hem of his coat. An actuator camera takes in the view from under cover there, and he quickly assesses there's no threat to himself. He resumes the hunt for scraps to incorporate into his latest project.

Dismissed, the other man presses the woman against a wall and keeps his hand clamped over her mouth, reducing her screams to whimpers.
blindstrike: do not take (default)

[personal profile] blindstrike 2015-04-23 11:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Tonight means instead of the thud of shoes on asphalt, Matt swaps listening for the crunch of snow. He imagines it’s cold enough that his breath comes out in a cloud, soft as cotton, white in his mind’s eye that still remembers what it used to be like to see. The memories are hazy around the edges, fading each year no matter how much he tries to hold onto them.

Most nights he usually keeps to a patrol or he has a goal in mind, a specific type of scum that he wants to take off the streets before midnight, preferably. There’s a method, a reason, something to ideally shake things up in the worst way possible instead of just jumping in like that guy in the spider tights he started hearing about. (Foggy says he thinks the costume’s “actually cool” but you can see way, way too much and someone needs to show him the invention called cups. Karen laughed into her coffee). The plan is usually he plays it smarter, like Stick and experience taught him. That’s what it is on paper but when he hears the first scream get cut off less than a block away, Matt throws the plan over his shoulder. Shaking down Mr. Hart can wait.

The actual takedown is over in seconds.

He registers three heartbeats, one slamming against a ribcage with adrenaline, a muffled gasp that’s pitched higher – woman – and another a few yards away digging through the trash, from the smell wafting his way. Matt zeroes in on the immediate threat. Drop down; lunge forward, hook arm around the assailant’s throat and use his weight to add momentum without wasting time on warnings. There’s a satisfyingly heavy thud as the man smashes into the wall, goes down, and stays down. Nice that happens every once and a while.

By the time Matt straightens, catching his breath, he’ll find the woman’s run off and he’s alone with the homeless man digging through the trash.
pridegoeth: (mild frown)

[personal profile] pridegoeth 2015-04-24 01:06 am (UTC)(link)
Already the situation has changed, as fast as Matt's acute senses can take it in, because now there's a noise that's entirely unlike heartbeats, and in fact possibly entirely unlike anything he has ever heard in his life. It started just about the time he took the misogynistic assailant out, and in that moment of physical combat it might be easily dismissed as some distant mechanical sound. There's plenty of industrial buildings around the neighborhood, after all, and vehicles, and other things to make more obscure machine noises.

As soon as the woman has fled and the only sound from her attacked is unconscious breathing, he'll probably realize the source of the noise is in the alley itself, roughly in the same spot as the now-faster heartbeat of the bum. It's impossible to identify, a soft metal ratcheting and clicking, like a mix between a bicycle chain, fingernails on bass guitar strings, and very fine servos. The bum is breathing quicker, heartbeat thudding and just slightly arrhythmic, and he seems to be surrounded by the quiet stirring if the strange machines. Plural. At least two, maybe more. Matt's night just may be about to get a lot more complicated.

Otto, for his part, dangles with his feet several inches off the ground. The lower actuators hold him up, while the upper two writhe and twist slowly around and half in front of him, protective guard dogs that they always are. While he hasn't been attacked yet, he half expects he will be in a minute, and he's ready for it, but in the quiet before a potential storm he has a moment to study the stranger, dark clothes standing out against the gradually accumulating snow. The man has the loose and ready stance of an experienced fighter. Considering what he's just done, it seems completely plausible he's another one of those damned costumed vigilantes. That could mean Otto is next on his list, and with all four actuators unfurled from beneath his coat he assumes he's already been recognized.
blindstrike: do not take (014)

[personal profile] blindstrike 2015-04-25 06:04 am (UTC)(link)
Over the years Matt has constructed a mental map that constantly evolves. An encyclopedia, a database, whatever you want to call it; it's comprised of noises, impressions of objects moving, sliding in space, smells. Common combinations. New ones get added all the time. Sometimes he'll add something that he doesn't hear often and that's usually shuffled to the back, put lower on the priority list. Matt's tuned to heart-beats, nervous swallows, fidgeting, the hiss of a knife through air. Weight of an assailant based on how heavy the footfalls are. The sounds of a set of mechanical arms he might have caught on a TV a few years ago is low enough on that mental list that he’s actually confused by it.

His head tilts slightly to the side as Matt pauses, listens, tries to place the sound. Threat? The guy he probably gave a concussion to was a direct threat. Textbook. The combo of sounds he’s getting now clash, don’t belong together. It makes the four-man brawl he had last Saturday look like it was telegraphed in comparison.

The movement of the arms wafts the sour-sweet musk of a man who hasn’t had a chance to wash too much. Sweat, old body odor, dirty clothes. Probably the homeless guy he picked up on earlier. His breathing’s higher up though than it should be, moving around a little as he sways almost like a drunk. Matt’s eyebrows furrow underneath the mask as he turns toward the sound, squaring his shoulders. The increasing heartbeat, muffled by all the other noise, paints a little more to the picture but doesn't give him all the answers.

“You.” Matt’s voice comes out in a low drawl. “Come here.”

How the man walks, how he reacts, will tell him plenty. Or that’s what he’s hoping, anyway.
pridegoeth: (uncertainty)

[personal profile] pridegoeth 2015-04-25 08:21 pm (UTC)(link)
'Come here'? Dr. Octavius doesn't even try to stop the harsh bark of laughter. "You've got to be joking. You must think I have an unbelievably short memory, to want to walk straight into the same bludgeoning I've just watched you give somebody else." The voice is rich and expressive, and more notably his accent and choice of words speaks of a good education, possibly even someone who's given a few lectures, himself. He sounds confident, even a little mocking, but Matt's other senses tell a different story.

He's afraid. Regardless of whatever advantages the actuators grant him, he's taken a beating at the hands of a costumed vigilante before. That was a while ago, when he was still driven by rage and grief, and fresh on the streets. Now he's been dragged back from death, painfully so, and had to spend the time since scrounging out a living. He's carved out a sort of lab, resumed his tinkering with whatever project seizes his mind, but it has not been easy. The actuators are convinced he's biding his time, plotting and planning a grand return, but in the few quiet moments they're not clued into his thoughts, Octavius is not so sure. He's lost some weight, he dreams of a hot shower, and his misadventures have taken a toll on his body. That occasional skip of his heart is something he strives to ignore. It's not as if he could go to a doctor even if he wanted to. His stance tonight is a defensive one. He wasn't looking for trouble, just machine parts. Damned costumed vigilantes. They are, to his mind, little different from the bullies that plagued his childhood, just looking for somebody they can get away with beating up.

The snow falling down the back of his collar is nothing compared to the icicles of hair-fine neuroconnectors up his spine, driving the cold straight into his bones. Dr. Octavius shivers and coughs once, feeling miserable and unlucky, and reaches for the familiar anger from that to put on a bold face. "I'm not some back-alley thug, as you can see. If you want to cart that piece of human refuse off to the station, be my guest," he gestures at the unconscious man, the move sending the subtle stink of fear, old sweat, and machine oil wafting towards Matt. "But trust me, you're better off leaving me to my own devices."
blindstrike: do not take (056)

[personal profile] blindstrike 2015-04-30 08:53 pm (UTC)(link)
What makes you think you’ll get the same?” Matt’s run into his fair share of homeless. It’s a spectrum, shades: some that haven’t been able to receive the help they need, others that have fallen on hard times and lost everything but they are (or aren’t) working to turn it around. Usually you can tell the difference by the way they talk, the smell (some might not have a house but they’ve maintained a gym membership for the showers). Some don’t solicit. Others do. The man yards away with the sounds that don’t match sounds educated, smells like he isn’t one of those who counts a gym membership as a utility. He wants to say something like out of work professor, educator. No one uses the word “bludgeoning” in Hells Kitchen without coming from that kind of background. So he hasn’t always been like this, rooting around in the trash and ignoring what was going on practically in his face.

It’s a fair point, though. He did almost break the man’s nose with the wall, to be fair. But he’d had it coming, obviously coming, and as far as Matt knows, the bum hasn’t done anything that would deserve a repeat. The beat of his heart indicates nervousness, apprehension, possibly some health problem because it’s not like they receive the best medical care.

He might even let it slide, go back to paying Mr. Hart a visit, but it’s the voice, familiar enough that he wants to stick around for some answers. There’s no hiss of a knife in the air, no soft click of someone edging their gun out of their holster.

“I’m planning to,” Matt stands his ground. His arms rest at his sides, fists uncurled but he’s still standing at that loose stance where he could explode into action if it looks like this is going to go south, fast. “You got a name?”

If he can’t place the voice off the bat, the name will jog his memory, he’s sure of it.
pridegoeth: (explaining)

[personal profile] pridegoeth 2015-05-01 03:10 pm (UTC)(link)
The smell is a definite unfortunate side effect of his time on the streets. Not even sneaking into the YMCA would work well, once anyone caught sight of the actuators fused to Dr. Octavius' back. An additional complication is the actuators themselves seem to have developed a fear of water, ever since they hauled him out of the Hudson river. The actuators are both a curse and a blessing, and if only Matt realized they're also a potential weapon as deadly as any knife or gun. They're watching, but not attacking. Not yet.

The actuators and the man who bears them are both tense and ready, though, as he delivers his name. "Doctor Otto Octavius." It's a little insulting, actually, not to have been recognized already. He knows what a distinctive figure he makes, and of course he's assuming Matt can see the actuators in plain view, two supporting him just off the ground, two still weaving a slow and watchful dance around and partly in front of him. He was all over the news, wasn't he? Blaring headlines and bad nickname and all. Granted, that was a while ago. Before he was declared dead, drowned with a failed experiment that threatened the entire city. Libel.

Again his heart gives a little skip, and he grimaces, watching and waiting and fully expecting to be attacked now that he's made it clear he's the man the papers declared a mad scientist supervillain.
blindstrike: do not take (default)

[personal profile] blindstrike 2015-05-03 09:20 am (UTC)(link)
Octavius. It takes another second before it clicks into place and he remembers: one of those times where New York could have used the Avengers but instead they got that kid in the spider tights. Man with mechanical arms the papers were calling “Dr. Octopus” (Foggy thought the name was lame but surprisingly catchy). It explains the strange sounds he’s getting from the man’s direction, the mismatching hiss of metal and faint clicks and the puzzle suddenly shifts into coherence. Those must be the arms, some of them swaying independently, and it occurs to Matt that he might be out of his depth here. Armed thugs he can take down. He’s dodged being shot at, he’s been used as a human punching bag and he’s always come back swinging. Those were always normal flesh and blood people, though, not a man who has arms grafted to his back – arms that don’t have the same tells as a mob of thugs charging him.

“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t turn you in,” Matt would love to hear it. At the moment, he isn’t even sure if whatever reason he gives will be enough to change his mind. As he talks, he’s trying to calibrate that mental map of his, pinpoint which arm is the closest, which might be more likely to attack. He’s more or less stuck on the ground, compared to that kid, and suddenly he catches himself thinking that he could see why the webslinging was a good idea after all.

Matt takes a single step forward, flexing and unflexing his fists to loosen them up. His face underneath the mask seems to be calm, collected – inwardly he’s focused all his senses onto Octavius, waiting for that invisible shift that could tell him if this is going to get nasty.
pridegoeth: (Don't interrupt)

[personal profile] pridegoeth 2015-05-03 01:05 pm (UTC)(link)
Between his intelligence and his cybernetic enhancements, Dr. Octavius is a far more difficult foe than any ordinary street thug. He's terrifyingly dangerous, but he's also not attacking, nor even threatening to. When Matt takes a step forward, one of the actuators gives a mechanical rattle, shaking itself, like the warning of a snake. The doctor's breathing is very fast, fearful, but his fear fuels further scorn. "Let me guess, I've just broken the law by rummaging in a dumpster and loitering, and therefore must be brought to justice by the authorities turning me over to some private government lab for dissection and being turned into a vegetable. And of course the right to a fair trial will be waved since I'm clearly a lunatic. You damned vigilantes are all the same! Costumed bullies looking for an excuse to flex your muscles and throw a punch, damn the consequences because what happens after isn't your responsibility, and people Like you for it!!" His voice is rising in volume, as he hurls his anger at the masked man before him, but he's perfectly rational. The sound of a distant siren gives him pause, head jerking to the side and heart skipping as he goes quiet trying to determine the source. He lacks Matt's senses, but the sound is a number of blocks over, and quick to fade. Whatever that fuss is about, it's a ways off and nothing to do with them.

"Has it ever occurred to you that your kind blundering into things causes more problems than it solves? If that damned SpiderMan hadn't shown up in my lab-" A mechanical arm clicks and gives a quieter rattle, and this time it's not directed at Matt. He can hear that piano-wire sliding sound of movement as it arches inward, to face its host, interrupting his tirade. The past is dangerous to think about too much, and they always try to distract him from any train of thought that might lead down a self-destructive path. "...Never mind. I can't give you a reason why you shouldn't be like all the rest, but I've got no reason to go quietly. They won't put me in prison. They'll put me under a microscope and cut me apart. They've already tried once, and I hadn't even committed a crime, then."