Holland March (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
questioningmermaids) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2023-09-03 10:55 am
questioningmermaids) wrote in singillatim2023-09-03 10:55 am
green peppers; ota
Who: Holland March + anyone
What: March is not handling things very well and being a nuisance
When: Early arrival, throughout the day and also 2am
Where: Milton (town house, outside, the general 'all of it.')
Content Warnings: standard alcoholism warning for march
[ This place sucks. It's a shit hole even without the added shittiness of it being a frozen wasteland in Canada, and that's a very strong opinion and the hill he wants to die on. March never shies away from telling people exactly what he thinks, oftentimes to the point of annoyance, and anyone who's talked to him for more than 20 seconds knows that he, like most people in this godforsaken tundra, would rather literally be anywhere else.
March's problem is that as much as he kicks up a stink and complains he's got that insatiable curiosity pumping through his veins. It's the whole PI thing, the whole detective business: you can't not be a little insane and want to check things out. Sure, there's a survival aspect but what wins March over in terms of going to explore is absolutely pure nosiness.
He's bundled himself up at least and can easily be found rifling around abandoned houses trying his best to ignore the important things like 'corpses' and 'the crushing and highly depressing feeling of being put in an insanely specific survival scenarios with absolutely no self preservation instincts whatsoever.' It's fairly easy to guess where he is: as he's rooting (looting) buildings, he's singing very loudly to the song in his head, only he can't remember the actual words. It's keeping him sane, even if it might be driving others up the wall. ]
[ There's no way this bottle of scotch isn't his. It's literally the same one he bought to congratulate himself, complete with the bag proudly displaying that it was purchased at Dale's Food Mart, EST 1955 and a price sticker. It's also right next to a framed school photo of his daughter; one of the few things that the fire spared.
So yeah, it's his bottle, so yeah, he's going to drink it, 'cause that photo is a little bit of a fuck you to him on cosmic level. It's been a tough day. Tough night, tough everything, and between the whole 'we're going to freeze to death' and general bone deep concern for everything and everyone he's met so far it doesn't take him long to finish off half the bottle. Probably he should save it. Probably. But he's treating the booze like the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket: like it's normal, like he can continue to chain smoke and toss back his limited supplies. If anyone exploring comes across the little cabin he's found it in, be prepared for a very drunk and raucous welcome from where he's sitting on the floor, arms wide in delight like an old friend has just walked in for the first time in years, absolutely delighted and grinning a mile wide. ]
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!
[ The problem is that sometime between one am and two am that bottle is nearly empty and Holland March has consumed almost all of it. That's when he gets it: the best idea in the universe.
If he goes outside, he'll find more. It's probably not even that cold out anymore anyway, 'cause he's feeling warm. It's that nice little tickle in his chest that comes with a lot of booze and forgetting just how fucked they all are. March is smart, not stupid, obviously, so of course he brings a jacket. It's his suit jacket from home, all light linen, and his dress shirt is completely open exposing his tank top because yeah it's snowing or whatever but he's still, like, warm and shit.
He doesn't get very far in his mission to find more, but that's okay. One hand holding his flask from home, the other the almost empty bottle of scotch sans paper bag, March gasps loudly at the night sky. ]
I gotta show Healy this. The moon.
[ With absolutely no regard to any sensible people trying to sleep, March begins to shout as loudly as he possibly can, voice cracking and sounding rather girlish. ]
HEY HEALY! Healy! Healy!
[ He'll simmer down after no response or if no one stops him. Unfortunately, he still has that song in his head. Fellow interlopers: there is a very drunk, extremely loud man in the middle of the town square singing--slurring, more accurately--the words to an old 70s funk tune. ]
[ How he's managed to somehow wake after the previous nights events is beyond even his comprehension, but he's here. Alert isn't accurate, but March is technically awake and alive, staring miserably at the wall in the Town Hall, a cigarette dangling between his lips that hasn't been lit despite the gold lighter literally in his hand.
Possibly, he may be dying. Or just incredibly hungover. could go either way. ]
Feel free to DM me if you'd like a personalized starter, etc!
What: March is not handling things very well and being a nuisance
When: Early arrival, throughout the day and also 2am
Where: Milton (town house, outside, the general 'all of it.')
Content Warnings: standard alcoholism warning for march
i. exploring;
[ This place sucks. It's a shit hole even without the added shittiness of it being a frozen wasteland in Canada, and that's a very strong opinion and the hill he wants to die on. March never shies away from telling people exactly what he thinks, oftentimes to the point of annoyance, and anyone who's talked to him for more than 20 seconds knows that he, like most people in this godforsaken tundra, would rather literally be anywhere else.
March's problem is that as much as he kicks up a stink and complains he's got that insatiable curiosity pumping through his veins. It's the whole PI thing, the whole detective business: you can't not be a little insane and want to check things out. Sure, there's a survival aspect but what wins March over in terms of going to explore is absolutely pure nosiness.
He's bundled himself up at least and can easily be found rifling around abandoned houses trying his best to ignore the important things like 'corpses' and 'the crushing and highly depressing feeling of being put in an insanely specific survival scenarios with absolutely no self preservation instincts whatsoever.' It's fairly easy to guess where he is: as he's rooting (looting) buildings, he's singing very loudly to the song in his head, only he can't remember the actual words. It's keeping him sane, even if it might be driving others up the wall. ]
ii. hot mess express;
[ There's no way this bottle of scotch isn't his. It's literally the same one he bought to congratulate himself, complete with the bag proudly displaying that it was purchased at Dale's Food Mart, EST 1955 and a price sticker. It's also right next to a framed school photo of his daughter; one of the few things that the fire spared.
So yeah, it's his bottle, so yeah, he's going to drink it, 'cause that photo is a little bit of a fuck you to him on cosmic level. It's been a tough day. Tough night, tough everything, and between the whole 'we're going to freeze to death' and general bone deep concern for everything and everyone he's met so far it doesn't take him long to finish off half the bottle. Probably he should save it. Probably. But he's treating the booze like the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket: like it's normal, like he can continue to chain smoke and toss back his limited supplies. If anyone exploring comes across the little cabin he's found it in, be prepared for a very drunk and raucous welcome from where he's sitting on the floor, arms wide in delight like an old friend has just walked in for the first time in years, absolutely delighted and grinning a mile wide. ]
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!
iii. hot mess express (2am version);
[ The problem is that sometime between one am and two am that bottle is nearly empty and Holland March has consumed almost all of it. That's when he gets it: the best idea in the universe.
If he goes outside, he'll find more. It's probably not even that cold out anymore anyway, 'cause he's feeling warm. It's that nice little tickle in his chest that comes with a lot of booze and forgetting just how fucked they all are. March is smart, not stupid, obviously, so of course he brings a jacket. It's his suit jacket from home, all light linen, and his dress shirt is completely open exposing his tank top because yeah it's snowing or whatever but he's still, like, warm and shit.
He doesn't get very far in his mission to find more, but that's okay. One hand holding his flask from home, the other the almost empty bottle of scotch sans paper bag, March gasps loudly at the night sky. ]
I gotta show Healy this. The moon.
[ With absolutely no regard to any sensible people trying to sleep, March begins to shout as loudly as he possibly can, voice cracking and sounding rather girlish. ]
HEY HEALY! Healy! Healy!
[ He'll simmer down after no response or if no one stops him. Unfortunately, he still has that song in his head. Fellow interlopers: there is a very drunk, extremely loud man in the middle of the town square singing--slurring, more accurately--the words to an old 70s funk tune. ]
iv. hangover;
[ How he's managed to somehow wake after the previous nights events is beyond even his comprehension, but he's here. Alert isn't accurate, but March is technically awake and alive, staring miserably at the wall in the Town Hall, a cigarette dangling between his lips that hasn't been lit despite the gold lighter literally in his hand.
Possibly, he may be dying. Or just incredibly hungover. could go either way. ]
v. wildcard;
Feel free to DM me if you'd like a personalized starter, etc!
no subject
Wait until everyone runs out of cigarettes. It’s gonna be a nightmare.
[ March is going to lose his mind. ]
no subject
.. but then the guy just lets out a sigh instead, looking a little less irritated. Still exasperated, but it's more at the thought of what March is saying rather than at the other directly. ]
Tell me about it.
[ Now that's a vice Bigby can understand. Screeching along with music? No. But smoking? Definitely. ]
I don't think this place is going to bless us with a shop selling them anywhere nearby. [ At least they can get food from their surroundings. So though that supply is slightly worrisome, it's not dire. ] Or a cigarette tree.
[ IF ONLY. ]
no subject
Square biz. [ A bit of slang on March’s part, but the meaning’s there: he agrees, too. He’s got about five cigarettes left by now, and he holds the pack out for the stranger to take one of them if he’d like. ]
For the noise. Holland March, by the way.
no subject
And not just because of the slang he doesn't understand, mind you. No, it's entirely at the offer of the cigarettes. It'd already be a little surprising to him back home, given that most people don't bother to go out of their way to be nice to him, but doing it in this place? Where these could be the last few cigarettes the other could ever have?
A guy like Bigby, who's so attached to his own smoking habit, can easily understand how big of an offer it is in all reality. Unless the other guy's just not thinking about the future right now.
And yet his hand is already reaching out, like he can't quite resist an offer like this. Even if he asks, looking directly over at March: ]
You sure?
[ Look, he'll do introductions and all that crap in a moment. This question is clearly more important. ]
no subject
Also there's the complete lack of survival instincts, sure. His shoulders bunch up in a shrug as much as he can without moving his outstretched hand, fully aware of the other's hesitation. ]
We're all gonna die within a week here, what's the point of being a bogart?
no subject
That's enough to let Bigby allow himself to take one of the offered cigarettes, moving it up to his mouth and taking out a lighter to light it. He seems to take a moment, inhaling, then exhaling smoke--
That does seem to hit the spot, something about his features momentarily lightening. ]
We're not going to die in a week.
[ A bold thing to say perhaps, given the circumstances, but Bigby sounds relatively sure about it. ]
Does it suck that we're out here? Of course. But we can hunt for food. There's supplies left behind here. [ .. even if they're practically taking said supplies from corpses, which is a little awkward, but..
You know, not like they're going to need it. ]
We can make it for a while, as long as no one goes ahead and does anything stupid.
[ Do you get why he was a little worked up about the singing now, March.
-- well, that, and he's just good at being a spoilsport, let's be real. Official fun police. ]