stranger danger

[decommission]

CHARACTERS: Steve and you
WHERE: The Station
WHEN: DAY :050-52
SUMMARY: Open downtime stuff
WARNINGS: None yet



DUMPSTER DIVING

[ An intrepid explorer moves around the rec wing on some days, moving from one grey room to another.

(a. ) One morning he can be found in the library, hunched over a book. It's got a beaten up covering of plastic and a illegible label torn from the bottom. The title reads Treasure Planet, the author L. R. Stevenson.

( b. ) At a table that grows out of the ground, he studies an odd board game.

( c. ) That same table will have cards spread across it another day. They're about the same size as a playing deck with slight variations - likely because they all appear to be from completely different decks, as though someone had stolen them for this collection. Every single one of the seventy cards depicts a different version of a tower. ]

MENTAL FINGER PAINTING

[ He sits cross-legged on his bed, back pressed against the wall. Deep breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. In and out. His eyes are closed, makes it easier.

While his body is silent, his mind is active, shields porous to let in a passerby without letting anything slip too far across the spidery links connecting them.

He paints a forest, tree by tree in dark greens and browns and the scent of pine. In the far distance the clack clack clack of rails invades the scenery, never far from the city.

He paints a park of flashing lights and amusement, ocean salt in the air mingling with fried foods. A young woman shrieks with laughter at her companion, a faceless child cries and tugs as his mother drags him along. Disconcertingly, the faces of the passing crowds are vague, unfinished impressions, their voices garbled together as background noise.

He paints a battlefield. Shoulder to shoulder, pressed against the crumbling brick - the image shudders and tears, leaving behind the unpleasant scent of unwashed bodies and blood. ]

(OOC NOTES: The second collection of prompts is open to anyone looking to practice mental powers. Feel free to come straight in and distort/add to the scenes. )

Comments

feel free to make up whatever details

[decommission]

What's the building for? [ The repeating imagery.

His gaze follows Clint's hand as he sifts through the laid out cards. ] They were in a book - [ He scans the table, momentarily forgetting where he placed it. He circles around to the other side of the table, finding it sitting on a stool that looks as though, and probably did, grow straight out of the floor, the same material as the walls around them.

It's a thick tome, a dictionary for some language he's never heard of before. He opens it, holding it out to reveal the center was cut out to hold the cards. ]

u got it

[cognitived]

[ Steve stands, voice trailing off, and Clint follows after him, loosely holding another card. His brows raise at the careful hiding place, and though the words are some form of what he assumes is Cyrillic lettering, a single glance isn't enough to tell him what language it is. More interesting is that the owner of these cards thought they needed a hiding place. ]

It's the Tower. [ His tone is somewhat distracted, brow furrowing, before looking back at Steve. Thoughtful, and some flicker of memory ebbs at his shields. A dimly lit room, long fingered hands flipping through cards, a Cheshire cat smile. ] Been, uh, a while since I've dealt with Tarot. But this card isn't hard to forget.

[ He holds it up again, thumb stroking over the small shape of a person falling. ]

Destruction, turmoil, even war if you're a pretty alarmist reader. [ He shrugs a shoulder, mouth curling ruefully. ] I tend to think that's too literal, though.

[decommission]

[ Most everything in this part of the Station seems like it belonged to someone else once, now left behind or forgotten. He should probably feel guilty for messing around with someone else's stuff, but they did leave it out in a public area instead of their room.

They might've meant to, and just never came back. The dark towers give some credence to that morbid thought. ] Not too literal around here.

[ Given the circumstances.

Clint's memory licks at the edge of the connection. A faint quirk of his mouth. ]

So you're a spy, assassin - and a fortune teller?

[cognitived]

[ Remnants of Broods long gone, and they're left to reinhabit the space. Should be unnerving -- and it is, don't get him wrong -- but it also reminds Clint of some of the SHIELD safehouses he'd once used. Shitty, out-of-the-way places made slightly better by personal touches. A deck of cards, clean clothes, the weird vaguely patchouli scented soap Nat liked to squirrel away. Sure, living in a place that was clearly inhabited once before is eerie. But it's also familiar in a way.

Except, Steve's not wrong, and from the rueful look on Clint's face he's well aware of it. Destruction? More than likely given the way things go around here. And the other meanings -- revelations, change, the up-ending of one's understanding. That seems par the course here too.

So instead, Clint chuckles, grinning easier at Steve. ]

Not really, but i did grow up in a circus.

[ Because his backstory is ridiculous, of course. ]