bakerstreet

( info + permissions. re-voicetesting. )

un. Greeted with, "Enjoy your pen's company."
deux. ( Every morning, walking the same path. )
trois. ( Harshly, ) I don't need your opinion.

wildcard. Bring your own!

[A stolen kiss, at the ball.]

[ Whether it is to be considered the lady of the household's or her brother's ball, it can be difficult to say. The difference may seem minimal, and while Germaine acknowledges that it is indeed subtle, it's also important. Alain has carried himself with the prerogatives men like to pretend are theirs and theirs alone - and Jeanne, in turn, has paid him back in the only currency available to her; the social one. The Parisian politician hosting tonight's event had invited the good monsieur and madame Dupont (as well as the spinster sister, Germaine is she), but Jeanne had refused to attend until Alain had promised to praise her at least three ways in full public.

The whole display had made something sour gather in Germaine's throat.

The fact that they are late and almost didn't make it here at all had her tremble inwardly from desperation. She knows that Adele will be in attendance, as Adele is always to be found anywhere that anything important takes place, truly, and the chance to see the other woman again has been the only positive of their whole Paris outing. A chance that Jeanne almost ruined, with one word, one shrill objection. Surely, one mustn't judge another woman for the sad conditions to which she is bound, but Germaine is only human.

She wants, she wants, she wants.

Having finally escaped Alain's attention, she is following the dance floor around, searching the crowd for that familiar face. A hat. A fake moustache. Anything recognisable. Her heart is thudding wildly in her chest, although her movements show none of the wild abandon, the hope, the frantic hope. She passes by a doorway on her way, pausing momentarily to navigate the vast sea of people, none of them important to her. None of them bar one. ]

[These affairs are usually so dreary. She's taken to making some sort of scene just to keep her mind occupied. Report on a ball, of all things? She could write that in her sleep. In fact, for these occasions she already had a form ready, she just tended to fill in the blank parts. It saved time.]

[Not that there wasn't much gossip she could make use of - and it was amazing how much Adele heard when people thought she was merely there to have fun, or was a bit drunk, or was making a scene.]

[So she'll find something of use in all this...or so she thinks, until she spots a familiar face in the sea. A fun one.]

[She moves into the backrooms, awaiting her moment, until Germaine is near to a doorway. And the band, unknowingly, cooperates, starting up a tango. A hand reaches out from a doorway, to slip around Germaine's wrist and pull her inside, out of sight. And into the waiting arms of Adele Blanc-Sec, humming along to the tango, turning Germaine and dipping her, a wide grin on her face.]

And I thought tonight was going to be boring.

[She is dressed all in red, a wrapping dress that hugs her form more than is usual - and with a view of decolletage that is definitely more than the usual - to say nothing of the slit along the legs to let her dance.]

I went traveling, found my home.

a. Alarm goes off. Morning. Too early.
b. The shot missed. Back to basics.
c. Coffee. With a cat or two.
d. New scars and new thoughts. Recovery.
e. "Hold up. That's today?". Not ready.
f. [Wilcard, bring your own]

( info. )

a. No family left, only a brother.
b. Parisian by birth, foreigner by fate.
c. Where did time go, she wonders.

wildcard. Bring your own!

one. I'm just a simple wild child.
two. I'll love you like the sun.
three. That's a dangerous idea, isn't it?
four. Then I am done playing around.
five. [ wild card ]

[ voice testing, ota. ]

1. "Evaluation complete: this human is faulty."
2. Simple infiltration, bad luck: shenanigans ensue.
3. "Vengeance? Negative. It is strategic necessity."
4. "An ARID unit cannot misrepresent reality."
5. "Broken, yes. But not beyond repair."

1. Torched the haystack. Found the needle.
2. Abandoned alley. Authoritative figure loses demeanor.
3. Masquerade party. I pose as reveler.
4. Beers were cracked, so were jaws.
5. Wildcard.

Was it worth it?

Yes. I say that in this case, without making it a blanket statement. Sometimes it's better to thread the needle and knit rather than torch all the threads around it.

It's important to adapt to what a situation needs, don't you think?

Very much so. Preparation is key, as is the ability to adapt.

It sounds like you've seen your share of combat. Have you ever had to raze a forest for a tree? Or have more narrow paths suited you better?

I have not, in fact. There is no battle to fight. I have studied those of old, the tactics and strategies involved.

You are a warrior?

I'm a businessman, but there's quite a bit of battle mentality involved in and out of a boardroom.

Yours is a peaceful realm now then, if battles are kept theoretical?

Sounds like what it is to be king. Always in Council.

Peaceful, yes, but not without delicate balances.

A bit, yes. Though where I'm from things are run via a council rather than a monarchy. The ones with the biggest pockets tend to have the most sway.

What is your role to play in that balance?

The king is my father, though I am the youngest of his children. My duty is to.protect and serve the realm.

1. New shoes, new lies, new life.
2. An old wound, open again. Fuck.
3. "I told you this would happen!"

1. A basket, a child, a note.

2. Engagement ring: sold to buy medicine.

3. He whispered his last: “save yourself.”

4. Best friends. Relationship. Breakup. Now strangers.

[ ooc: taking some inspiration from this comic, hope that's cool! ]

[ Carlo looked down at the pair of corpses and quickly averted his gaze, feeling his stomach churn at the revolting sight. He was glad for the crow's mask which covered his face, if only because Romeo wouldn't be able to see the way his mouth twisted in a look of disgust, or the way his gaze flickered over the entire room, looking at anything other than the twisted corpses holding one another in a grim mockery of a lover's embrace.

It was such a horrible way to die. Skin hardening into stone; grotesque pustules erupting from painful lesions that wept blue ichor. But worst of all was how the skull appeared to crack open, bony protrusions unfurling like the petals of a flower, revealing strange crystalline carbuncles that almost resembled a crown.

Is that the sort of death that would eventually claim him? His own body rebelling against itself — black veins and arteries crawling out of his skin, lashing him to whatever surface he found himself touching? A black flower in bloom, poison dripping from its thorns.

Carlo focused his attention once more on the journal lying open on a nearby table, the final entry scribbled in a shaky hand. Sold engagement ring to buy medicine. Hopefully, this will work. I can't bear to see him in so much pain... ]

The medicine didn't even work. [ Carlo closed the journal, the metal fingers of his left hand splayed open against the cover. ] Obviously a fake cure, but people will cling to whatever scraps of hope are dangled in front of them.

[ Was Carlo really any different? Cutting off his left arm was only delaying the inevitable.

But still, this was better than lying in bed and waiting for death to claim him. At least, this way, he might be able to find other survivors in the quarantine zone. Help them, if he could.

Maybe he'd even learn of Sophia's whereabouts and why she disappeared so suddenly from the Rose Estate... ]

(ooc: That comic... my heart!! Help...)

Romeo nodded, muttering: "Fake. Yeah. Of course."

He didn't tell Carlo that he'd been asking around about such medicine, too. There were whispers around the quarantine zone, and although the people inside had been left to die, somehow things still managed to be smuggled in.

Romeo had considered reaching out to the Black Rabbit Brotherhood — to someone, anyone — but what did a guy like him have to offer? They would have laughed at him. But over the past few days, weeks, he'd been pushed to near breaking. What use did the dead have for shiny baubles and trinkets? Why should the departed get to keep their riches when Carlo was here, still alive beside him and suffering?

He would damn himself if only Carlo got to live, if only for a few more days, or even pain free. If Romeo had the opportunity to give Carlo that, he would.

But the tenderness of the scene still struck him; Romeo wasn't that heartless yet. The only keepsake he had from his parents was his mother's cheap wedding ring that he wore on a cord round his neck. He dreamt of giving it to Carlo, even now, as silly as the sentiment had always been. It wouldn't mean anything, not to anyone else, but to Romeo it would have meant everything.

Out of habit, he reached up to make sure it was still there: the familiar metal he'd clung to his whole life. For comfort, for a reminder that he didn't come from nothing. The thought of selling it for whatever paltry sum shook him, but for Carlo...

He looked up from the pair of corpses, his breath hot in his panther mask as he watched Carlo shut the journal. Such finality: an end to two lives.

Romeo shuffled over to him, touching Carlo's shoulder as he said: "Let's keep looking. We're sure to find... something."

Not hope, nor answers — that was never a guarantee. But there was always something lurking round the corner.

Carlo tilted his head toward Romeo, staring at him obliquely through the mask's glass eyes, black and unblinking.

"I hate people like that. People that take advantage of a crisis just so they can prey on the weak and vulnerable." His metal fingers curled into a fist atop the journal. "It makes me sick! To think that there are such cruel and heartless people like that in the world, profiting off of human suffering..."

That charlatan was probably holed up somewhere, hoarding his ill-gotten gains, getting drunk off of expensive wine traded for a pittance. All because people had faith in his snake oil cure-all.

Carlo wasn't devout, not by any stretch of the imagination. But if Hell did exist, then he hoped a special place was reserved for people like that charlatan.

Then again, this place was close enough, wasn't it? Maybe that charlatan wouldn't make it out of here alive.

Maybe none of them would.

Carlo was startled from such thoughts by a gentle touch to his shoulder. He flinched, his metal fingers clicking jerkily with the movement. He was still adjusting to his new limb, still testing the limits of its strength, exploring its vulnerabilities. He had come to learn that it lacked fine motor control, which was to be expected, but maybe he'd grow more accustomed to it with time?

Time that, he realized, he didn't have. The limb itself only bought him maybe another week, if that. If he was lucky.

Carlo nodded, the mask's beak bobbing up and down in a very birdlike fashion. "Yeah. Let's gather what food and medical supplies we can find and keep going. Once we break through the quarantine zone, there's no going back. The authorities will hunt us down and kill us on sight, so we'll have to keep moving."

He'd heard rumors that they were setting up firing squads and snipers at the checkpoints. The situation was so tense that they were shooting anyone even remotely suspicious that approached, without even a word of warning.

And yet there were reports that there were outbreaks of the Petrification Disease outside the quarantine zone, as well. At least, that's what Carlo had heard through the Stalker's information network. Which meant that people must be getting out. Somehow.

It was a bitter sort of hope that settled in the pit of his stomach.

"The workshop tower isn't that far, so let's not overburden ourselves. Just enough to get us through the next day or two."

"With any luck, the person who caused this is already dead." Or would be soon. But fate could be cruel. For all they knew, the charlatan was one of the lucky few to escape. Romeo had heard stories: the right palms being greased. Freedom. But even if it were true, who could be trusted when it felt like the world was ending?

His world was ending, at any rate. Why couldn't his own life be enough? Why did Carlo have to suffer right alongside him?

I would die for him. It wasn't the first time such a though had occurred to him, and it wouldn't be the last.

"Sorry." Romeo stepped back, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. "I didn't mean to startle you. I just..."

He let his words drift off as he turned away, heading to a cupboard to forage. They were running out of time — he knew that — and yet there was still so much left unsaid. But Romeo didn't even know where to start. Did it matter now? Making the most of the time they had left was more important.

Selfishly, Romeo hoped he would go first. Carlo was stronger than him... but he didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve any of this.

"Empty." Sighing, Romeo moved onto the next cupboard: picked clean but for the crumbs left to the rats.

His stomach grumbled, but he would survive. He'd been insisting on rationing and preparing their food — so that Carlo wouldn't have to worry, he said — but what Romeo was really doing was giving Carlo the larger portions. Fresh food was one of the first things that stopped coming into the quarantine zone.

"Any luck on your end?"

In truth, he found it a comfort, that hand on his shoulder. It was a blessing that he could even feel it at all, but it seemed that losing his left arm truly had slowed the disease's progress. At least, on that half of his body. Even now, he could feel how the skin on the right side of his neck was pulling taut against the stony plaques erupting across his shoulder.

Carlo had taken pains to try and hide the evidence of his worsening condition from Romeo. He didn't want his best friend questioning his decision to replace his left arm, thinking it was a wasted effort.

Because it wasn't. Even if it only bought him a few precious days, he'd spend every waking moment trying to find answers. To learn of Sophia's whereabouts. To rescue her, if he could. To learn if the Alchemists had truly synthesized a cure for the Petrification Disease and, if so, why they hadn't administered it to the populace yet.

He felt the fingers on his shoulder tense slightly, as though Romeo was trying to convey something more than mere words would allow. Carlo shifted closer as he stepped back, mourning the loss of his touch.

"You didn't." Carlo huffed a laugh, the sound muffled behind the mask. "This arm is just a little twitchy, that's all! But I think I'm finally getting used to it."

Raising his left hand, he flexed the metal fingers against his palm, the movements disconcertingly out of synch. It didn't look natural at all, and it certainly didn't feel natural.

He was glad that Romeo wouldn't be able to see the look of quiet desperation settle across his face. He needed to be strong. For both their sakes.

Carlo began opening cabinets and pulling open drawers, methodically searching the contents. "There's a first aid kit with some clean gauze and iodine. A bottle of chartreuse with maybe a mouthful left in it..." He waved the near-empty bottle in Romeo's direction, sloshing the green liquid around inside. "Could use it as an antiseptic, or you could just finish it off yourself?"

Romeo wouldn't be able to see it, but Carlo was grinning behind his mask, his eyes dancing with some secret mischief. Good liquor was almost always one of the first things to get looted in situations like this, and it had been awhile since they found anything even halfway drinkable.

He wanted Romeo to have it. He was so tense, all the time, for understandable reasons. If anyone deserved a little something to settle their nerves, it was him.

"I'm glad you're getting used to it."

Romeo still felt guilty about the loss of Carlo's arm. He always would. Why did he have to be so useless? He clenched his fists at the memory, accidentally slamming a cupboard shut. Madness lay down that train of thought. Carlo needed him calm. In control. Not letting his regrets consume him.

It wasn't his fault: this was something Romeo had to remind himself again and again. The petrification disease. Carlo's arm. The state of the world. What mattered was how Romeo acted now; how he chose to fight back. How he and Carlo would spend their last few days, weeks. Everyone Romeo had ever known was either dead, dying, or missing. He wasn't sure how much stock he put in any cure, but that didn't mean he would stop trying. Not when he had Carlo by his side.

"And it seems like you're having more luck finding the good stuff," Romeo said, forcing his voice into a playful lilt. "Typical."

He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning surprise when Carlo offered him the bottle. Smiling had been difficult, laughter even more-so, and yet Carlo always managed to find a way to make him feel better. Lighter.

"Carlo, are you trying to get me drunk?"

Not that a few sips of alcohol would get him anywhere near drunk, but Romeo was good at letting his body lean into stimulants. He could make his body feel as if he were teetering on intoxication. In a way, it was the smallest of escapes.

"Are you sure?" Romeo took the bottle, cradling it in his hands: it was a rare find. "We could share it. You sip, I sip. Till it's gone. Wouldn't take long."

Not even the mask could muffle the laughter bubbling out of him in response to Romeo's playful teasing. Romeo had always been something of a mischief-maker and a class clown. He thrived off of the attention. It was almost impossible not to play along with him once he got started.

"Who do you think I learned it from?" Carlo asked, waving his mechanical hand vaguely in Romeo's direction. The gears clicked audibly in the silence, almost with a musical cadence. "It was your idea to filch that bottle of whiskey from the headmaster's office, remember?"

He vividly remembered them passing the bottle between them. How that first sip tasted so awful, worse than any bitter medicine, and how it burned all the way down. But then the burn settled into a pleasant warmth that bloomed within his belly, trickling toward his extremities. He remembered how his head felt light and full of air; how his cheeks flushed and his ears grew hot. He remembered looking at Romeo, seeing his pale face painted a delicate shade of pink, and Carlo had felt his skin prickle with the insane desire to be touched by Romeo's fingers. The thought of leaning forward and kissing his friend had swelled within his head, crowding out all other thoughts.

He'd almost done it. Almost.

Carlo felt his pulse tick a bit faster as he forced himself to maintain that airy tone. "Maaaaaybe..."

Carlo slumped against the wall and let his body slowly slide to the floor, still holding the bottle for Romeo to take. Which he did, grasping the neck with his slender fingers. Carlo watched intently from behind the dark lenses of his mask, the way his hands gently caressed the bottle, and swallowed hard as he imagined what it would feel like to have those hands touching his face. Cradling his cheek. Drawing their faces close...

"I'm sure," he said firmly, leaning back on his hands as he continued to stare up at his friend. "And... if you want to share it, I certainly won't say 'no'."

There wasn't nearly enough to get one person drunk, let alone two. At least there was no chance of Carlo being tempted to act on any foolhardy ideas due to a sudden lack of inhibitions.

He wondered, briefly, if maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

1. Threw rock at mirror. Reflection screamed.

2. His skin crawled. Right past him.

3. Visits graveyard. Reads name: His own.

4. Under the covers, over the monsters.

Is your reflection a coward or a drama queen?

I have seen the world lunge toward ruin time and time again. I have seen the worst of humanity do nothing but thrive.

And in the end, we are all alone. I am alone.

Look at me.

[He gestures to the skin of his face, smooth but gray. Dead.]

When I look in the mirror, I see failure: the world's and mine.

...To answer your question, though, I'd suppose I am both dramatic and a coward.

[ A smile spread across her lips. ]

You don't ever have to walk alone. You can always reach him. All you have to do is call.

I am looking. I don't see someone truly dead. Just tired.

1. You don't want to do this.
2. Nah, I'm fine. I've had worse.
3. Is that really a good idea?
4. Sorry. Not talking about that.

1; I don't tolerate the cold well.
2; He closed his eyes, foul dreams.
3; Good friends, could we be more?

1. "I don't remember summoning you, mate."

2. The candles blow out suddenly. "Shit."

3. Christ. She just wanted a pint.

4. She crouches, considering. "Not dead, then?"

1. Painfully, he changed “is” to “was.”

2. Strangers. Friends. Best friends. Lovers. Strangers.

3. Dark eyes dart. Blonde boy blushes.

4. The same sky, but worlds apart.

5. She merely smiled. His world stopped.

6. Wildcard.

1) He turns, strides triumphantly, into lampost.

2) Nothing to declare. Much to remember.

3) Emotional rollercoaster not worth admission price.

4) Message at Pearly Gates: Go Home.

5) (wildcard?)

[ P craned his neck, watching the scene unfold almost in slow-motion from across the street. He winced in sympathy.

That... looked rather painful.

After a cursory glance both ways, P crossed the street, clutching his parcel of books against his chest with his left arm. His other hand was extended toward the stranger. ]

Are you all right?

[Alivian reels a bit from the impact, flat on his ass. Rubbing at the bridge of his nose through the mask, he also adjusts it, then frowns a little at first in confusion when he hears someone near. After a moment, he shifts his weight a little and quietly accepts the help up. Tail wiggling a little nervously, his ears fold a little demurely, and he adjusts his mask one more time. Ow.

[Also: embarrassing. His cheeks burn slightly, too.]

I'm alright, thank you. Um. You still have a good grip on those books?

i. "Oh, this blood is not mine."

ii. "The sun glares upon my eyelids."

iii. "Do electric sheep dream, you think?"

iv. "Why can I not take flight?"

v. Feet unsteady. Too much to drink?

a. "You've got guts, I like that."
b. Coyote howls, dark night, flat tire.
c. "Stop sticking magnets on my arm."
d. "Psychic?" [annoyed huff] "I hate psychics."
wildcard. Bring your own!

sws

germaine dupont | original | ota

Wildcard!

good one!

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Prompto Argentum | Final Fantasy XV | OTA

Lady Nagant | BNHA

sylvie gallard | lest they leave | ota

shinmon benimaru // fire force

ARID | The Fall: Unbound | OTA

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1

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Blythe Danner Marvel OC/OTA

Romeo | Lies of P | OTA

2. pretend this is a carlo account....

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Giangio | Lies of P | OTA

1

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Dalton - Road House 2024

dan heng | honkai: star rail | ota

Johanna Constantine | The Sandman (Netflix) | OTA

P | Lies of P | OTA

Alivian | Kocchi Muite Glare (dom-sub verse) | OTA

1.

unsure if we're using PSL thread as base.

yi sang || limbus company || ota

garrison kane | marvel | ota