bakerstreet | THE BITTY MEME.

THE BITTY MEME.

Simply put. You are a small child. Or alternatively someone dealing with a small child. Either you turned into a kid or you're having to deal with a friend or individual who is now a child.

1. Playground: You're on a playground, either wrangling a small child or you're playing on the best playground, ever.

2. Toys: You're a kid in a toy store! Hooray!
Or..You're an adult in a toy store! Damn it!

3. Big Bad "something or other": You're a scared small children for some reason, maybe there's thunder or explosions or something.

4. Food Too much sugar, too much something or other.

5. Making Friends and Wildcard option: Your character's a kid. Go nuts with that.

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[YES. oh my god. Do you want to start or shall I?]

[There were times he liked to forget that he had once been a feral seventeen-year-old living and learning what life was really like at the bottom of the barrel with the rest of the sludge that circulated the dark greasy alleys of New York. He remembered the skills he had acquired down there, never admitted his mistakes or the sheer number of close calls. Some mistakes came back a year later when he was about to ship out to Iraq for special service, to learn order, to learn pain, to learn that HYDRA was his world.

A baby in the mix was just fucking rude to his new life as a ruthless cocky eighteen-year-old that had learned his shit didn't stink if he forced someone else to sit in it. He was too new to HYDRA to earn the right to anything, not even the boots on his feet.

He still slit her throat because Brock Rumlow left no loose ends he couldn't tie up. He dropped the baby to government owned fostership (owned by HYDRA of course) and had stayed long enough to name the squalling newborn 'Grant'. He had been granted a new life with HYDRA, reborn, loyal and fierce with glorious purpose. Let the single living identifiable mistake carry that reminder for him.

Battles were fought. Skills were learned. Debts were paid. Reputations were built and more than a few were stepped on. Years passed.

Rumlow returned from black ops to a new assignment, but he hadn't forgotten the last loose end that HYDRA had kept tabs on for him. Twelve years, a miserable family life (like father, like son), enough pain to see if the boy was made of anything worthwhile. He was to assess the whelp himself and if he found the boy wanting, he'd put a bullet right between the boy's puppy-brown eyes and flip off the last tie to a life that was like a bad dream in some backwater tavern.

He watched from afar a few days; he liked to know his target. He picked his opportunity and spot of engagement on a whim rather than having planned anything, and like all unfairly punished kids, they always went to the nearest park with swings or a tree to beat sticks on. He swaggered in with a half a cigarette at the corner of his lips and in absurdly out of place combat gear like he'd just stepped off of a black ops mission into this place. Damn little shit didn't look much like anything to write home about, but he'd see as he approached.]

(OOC: So... that was longer than expected. PM me if I need to change anything or you'd like something completely different.)

[Mildred Ward had her perfect son. It had been her husband who wanted the boy, who had thought it would have been a good political campaign move. It was Mildred who knew his history, or at least the vaguest sort of history. It was only after Grant had displayed spirit that she knew it was a bad idea and she had to crush him. She had to destroy his spirit.

It's his brother's birthday. His younger brother's birthday. At least it was, but the park's close enough to his house that he doesn't really have to ask permission to go there.

Not that he would have anyway.

Christian is his older brother. The best brother, and his mother loves Thomas, worships him, they're the perfect children and what's left for Grant anyway? Nothing but bruises and disappointment. Christian's too old to care and Thomas...Tommy doesn't need him anymore.

No one needs him.

In true fashion he's writing his name on the park bench with a black marker, while drawing his mother. With a knife in her chest.

He's angry as hell in a three hundred dollar blazer that's rumpled on the ground. Occasionally he scans the park, looking for parents, keeping an eye out for his mother.

Nothing.

So far. Just some creepy guy with a cigarette. He meets his gaze before going back to drawing.]

Edited 2014-12-17 03:22 (UTC)

[Well, the brat wasn't much to look at aside from the familiar sort of angry furrowing of the eyebrows that he knew like looking in a mirror. There's an angry cast that amused him to no end, only made better by the expensive looking clothing that allowed him to guess this was one of those special days for someone else. Damn him if one illegal overindulgence of alcohol brought that about nine months later.

Everything had to be perfect but the miserable black sheep of the family. However, that anger would get a kid in trouble, walking to places where the road to hell was paved in blood and bad deeds. Garrett was the recruiter; he was just here to make sure there was something to recruit later in the kid's miserable sorry life.

He stopped at the end of the bench, close enough to see the drawing but not enough to be too invasive. They were alone at least. He reached up and plucked the cigarette from his lips to flick off the ashes.]

You know, kid, it's all fine and good to draw knives, but if you're gonna leave a permanent mark... you better know how to use one. Do you?

[Grant starts at that, nearly jumping out of his spot and staring at him. The subtle cringe to his shoulders, the defiant look to him would probably tell anyone with any skill at reading people at all that he expected someone else who would punish him.

Severely.

What he gets is the creepy looking guy who asks an honest to goodness question.]

...No.

[I think that Grant would probably benefit from military school. It's something to consider. It would straighten the boy out. Walk around the house in a sullen way, refuse to smile, ask to be alone with your books and this is what it gets you. The boy remained a bookworm who would have been a lot happier being by himself if not for the grim slog of family.

He frowned] ...Why?

[He was going to really have to recommend someone work on the kid's nerves because that kind of jumpiness got a man killed in the field. And Grant was going to the field whether the little bastard wanted to or not; no son of his was going to live a pathetic life when there was a cause to be put towards. However, recruitment would come after recommendation.

He noted the reaction and shook his head, taking another drag of his cigarette, looking the kid over.]

You got a name, or am I going to have to resort to 'Hey you' for the duration of me standing at the end of this bench lookin' at you?

[He smirked at the corner of his lips and reached to his belt, slipping a wicked looking combat knife from his belt and twirling it expertly between his fingers. It spun around until the blade came to rest in his palm and the black leather hilt pointed towards the kid.]

A kid like you is only so good as the skills he picks up. You want to learn how to use a knife to defend yourself? [He offered the hilt towards Grant, wanting to see if the kid had the guts and the will to actually do it.]

[Insolence comes naturally to him. An angry streak that makes him protective of the people that matter - and makes him want to shove those who stand in his way to the dirt.] Grant.

[He's ready to make a joke, to name drop his father and mother...

When the man flips the knife toward him his eyes go wide with interest.]

What're skills like that gonna cost me Mr...

[Well, at least the kept the kid's name. That meant that he didn't have to shoot someone and blame it on the kid. He might not want too much to do with the little beast, but that didn't make Grant any like his all the same.

He noted the interest and smirked around the butt at the commissure of his lips.]

First time is free, Grant. [He stepped closer, the handle of the knife still offered.] Rumlow, and if you call me mister, I'll probably hang you from that tree over there.

[The boy snorted at that, watching him warily before taking the knife.]

Welcome to try if you can catch me.

[still] this is a real navy seals knife.

[Ah he remembered such insolence. It amused him to know end, and so far, the kid seemed interesting enough.]

I don't have to try to catch you, kiddo. [He shifted his jacket to reveal the butt of his handgun on his belt, the threat rather obvious. Grant ran; he'd put a bullet in the miserable brat's head... and then hang Grant from a tree.]

Of course it is. Standard issue, single notch on the hilt where I deflected a knife in active combat.

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THE BITTY MEME.

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5. I screwed up the timeline for this to work. Sorry, not sorry. More awful the better

This is flawless. Perfect.

<3

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gonna be slow for x-mas season

no worries me too!

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