it's been a long october.

[afterdrop]

Who: Charles Rowland and YOU
What: Monthy catch-all
When: Throughout October
Where: Around Milton

Content Warnings: Specifics TBD; general warnings available here.


𝒊. 𝒚𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅

[A short jaunt up from the town center, where the road gets rougher and the sparse trees begin to climb towards Milton House, there's an overgrown, decrepit cottage tucked back in the trees. Blue once, maybe, but faded into a mildewy grey, its windows utterly piled with what hasn't been worth scavenging.

At least, until today.

It's been almost six weeks of squatting in the near-hoard, stuck between pretending that he wouldn't be here long and feeling overwhelmed by the monumental task of making this place livable, when Charles finally wakes up, opens the front door, and starts dragging shit outside.]

Sorry, mate. [He gives a sideways little wave, plunking down a plastic cat carrier.] Just trying to clean up a bit, yeah?

[If it looks like it might have belonged to a 70-year-old woman prior to the apocalypse, it's sitting in the front yard now. Several ceramic horse figurines. A needlepoint pillow with a Bible verse on it. An ornate mirror, slightly scuffed. Use your imagination liberally. Surrounding it all, however, are items in much worse shape. The mattress looks like someone may have died on it, judging from the stains, and there's plenty of busted, broken furniture that's ripe to be chopped into firewood.]

Nick whatever you want. Don't think Gladys'll miss it much, will she?

𝒊𝒊. 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆

[There's one thing he won't part with from the old lady's house - an old, crumbling stick of black eyeliner he found in a bathroom drawer. With a tragic lack of sufficient inside light, however, he's toted a compact mirror down to the lessening hours of the town's unfiltered sun, and sat down against the back of the hunting supply store.

After thirty years of spiritually manifesting his eyeliner, it's harder than he remembers, especially with the scavenged pencil.]

Fuck. [Someone's having a hard time.] Bloody piece of shit.

[If you approach, he'll have one of a couple of reactions. Older men, particularly those broad or bearded, or otherwise classically masculine, will have him scrambling to conceal the pencil behind his leg, quickly barking out a, ] What're you looking at?

[If you have the good fortune not to remind him of one Paul Rowland, however, his reaction will be much less hostile. Instead, he'll give the pencil a little wave and offer a crooked smile.] Bit harder than back home, innit?

𝒊𝒊𝒊. 𝒐𝒐𝒄

[Contact me at ghoulsonfilm or pantsghost @ discord to plot a custom starter. Brackets are prose are both fine!]

Comments

[desperate_times_right]

[Chloe lives up on Greene Street but she likes to wander around after new arrivals have settled in and snoop a little.

At this place, she can't help but laugh at the stuff on the lawn.]

Awful lot of grandmas in this town, huh?

[This house’s occupant and Lestat’s could have been sisters.]

[afterdrop]

[Charles picks up some manner of tabletop doily, yellowed with age, and gives it a little shake. He absently wonders if lace burns.]

Can't say it's where I'd head if I was a pensioner. ["Retiree", for the discerning American.] Probably the beach, more like. Spend my golden years sipping cocktails.

[Not the one from his dream the other night, mind you. A proper one, with warm sand and slow waves and the smell of sunscreen. The kind he's only seen on the telly.]

[desperate_times_right]

[Chloe’s from Australia by way of India, and has a boyfriend on call in London. She’ll figure it out.

Yeah, all this fog is probably hell on arthritis. Maybe it wasn't so bad before shit all went to hell.

I'm Chloe Frazer, by the way. I'm up on Greene Street.

[afterdrop]

[Some people just have an impressive ability to misread Wiki pages, but I won't brag too hard.]

Charles Rowland. [He'd give a polite handshake if he hadn't just picked up a needlepoint. The stitches are sloppy, resembling something at least adjacent to a cat.] I'm here on Wolfjaw.

[A dumb joke, offered with a cheery grin. He gives the needlepoint a little waggle in greeting.]

And the fog can't be worse than London, yeah? Born and raised barely seeing my own nose.

[desperate_times_right]

Aw, the fog in London can be nice! Atmospheric. [It's good for sneaking around in, anyway.] Here, it can do all kinds of things to you. Burn you or freeze you, or give you a fever for some reason.

[Chloe still has a scar on the bridge of her nose from that caustic fog back in April.]

I knew a Charlie, back in London. Obviously not you, though.

ii.

[fidior]

[ Unfortunately for Charles, there is an older, very severe-looking man who insists on doing patrols (twice a day) around the entire town. He's dressed in uniform and long greatcoat, cap upon his head, mouth held in a stern frown. He also boasts one of the town's most extreme pair of muttonchops.

...At least he isn't carrying his shotgun. Edward still hasn't been able to bring himself to strap the thing to his back again, keeps it tucked under his bed.

Still, he probably couldn't look any more the figure of authority, and he does indeed go to approach the young man sitting behind the hunting supply store — he doesn't recognise him, and any stranger needs to be checked up on.

There's a jolt of startle when he realises the youth appears to be... painting his face the way women of other cultures — certainly not Edward's own — might, but that startle immediately pales in comparison once he's shouted at. Edward's eyes widen as his heavy boots come to a quick halt, lifting a gloved hand almost appeasingly. ]

Pardon me, sir! I did not mean to intrude upon your personal business. I was taking my second patrol of the day and wanted to check upon your state.

[ He's very earnest... ]

[afterdrop]

[It takes a moment for Charles' guard to lower, and even then his shoulders remain somewhat tensed. His eyes flick over Edward - bearded face to raised hands to dark uniform - like he's trying to find something that will give him a solid answer. What he fails to find in the man's appearance, he catches at least a hint of in his voice, and sucks in a steady breath.]

My state is fine.

[He does his best not to let any hostility in, but the words aren't warm by any means. Tucking his knees up to his chest, he lowers the eyeliner pencil until its out of sight, then reaches up to wipe at his single lined eye. It's a futile task, merely smearing black across his lid.]

You a cop, or something?

[#ACAB]

[fidior]

[ This is all very unprecedented. Little's Lieutenant's Manual certainly never prepared him for such a thing! As the youth swipes at his eye, smudging the lining there, it's truly clarified — he was painting his face... in his culture, this is what ladies of the night do...

He stares at him for a long moment, before blinking. ]

Ah— First Lieutenant Edward Little of Her Majesty's Royal Navy. I served aboard Terror. [ Since there are men from multiple ships around here... best to clarify....

The lengthy title itself comes out naturally, like it's a part of his name more than anything. Like it's a fact about himself, recited as easily as anything, without thought necessary beforehand. Edward stands there, awkwardly, and then thrusts out a gloved hand as though to shake. ]

[afterdrop]

[The response isn't what Charles was expecting - not just the words, correcting his brash judgment, but the demeanor as well: stilted, certainly, but polite. On instinct he'd been gearing up for a fight, and the lack of one leaves him uneasy.]

Terror? [A terse echo, as he tries to wipe away the rest of his smudged makeup. It's not working very well, and the peek of a dangling, golden earring beneath his toque cap doesn't quite help.] Bloody stupid name for a ship, innit?

[First Lieutenant Little isn't quite getting the best Charles has to offer, but it's nothing personal. Fucking trauma reactions, yeah?]

[fidior]

[ He waits, hand still lifted awkwardly, but the situation only continues to worsen from there — the young man's response not only catching him off-guard all over again, but the gesture of trying to clear his face... well. He looks even more painted now, a mess of black against one eye, and there's that flash of gold at his ear...

Little's staring there now, startled and feeling another stomachache of worry coming on. In his time, such things do suggest.... a rather unfavourable sort of character... ]

Er— stupid? [ Brought back to that little statement, his eyes widen again, looking every bit unsure how to handle this as he feels. ] I'm not sure I know what you mean, sir.

[ What's so strange about a ship named for sheer doom! ]

II

[guidemyway]

[Ruby hears the cursing the and can't help but go and investigate. When she sees the mirror, and the pencil she can't help but give a wide grin. Make up and such wasn't exactly her strong suit, but her inner goth was delighted at the opportunity.]

Do you need a hand?

What sort of look are we going for here?

[afterdrop]

[Of all the people who could have found him wrestling with the eyeliner, Ruby is definitely one of the better ones. Her reaction confirms it, and Charles gives a relieved smile.]

Nothing fancy. [He gestures to his first attempt, just a ] Just the top one, bit smudgy.

[The pencil is dry and crumbly, clearly too old, but it's all he could find in old Gladys' vanity. He passes it over to Ruby, and sits up straighter against the building's wall. Not much about his outfit, now consisting of scavenged coats and thick wool, calls up the image of a boy who might line his eyes, but there are hints, like his one dangling earring, and the notches shaved into his hair. All the rebellion he can fit into his style here, and still avoid freezing to death.]

[guidemyway]

[She gives a little grin and nods.]

Easy peasy.

[She takes the pencil and frowns slightly, it had certainly seen better days. But she had done a lot of cross continent travelling without many stops near civilization, she felt like she could make this work.

He's got a few inches on her height wise so she gets up on her toes and plants a hand on the wall to support herself as she goes to work. Trying to be a mix of gentle but forceful to work the crumbling eyeliner.]

It really sucks trying to be fashionable in a frozen wasteland, huh?

[Ruby herself looked maybe a little less gothic adventurer than she used to. It was easier to stay warm when she had a magical aura that protected her from the extreme heat, and biting cold. As such she's layered up pretty heavily now. But it's mostly in reds and blacks to keep up with her theme.]

[afterdrop]

[Charles closes his eyes and lifts his brows, trying to make it easier for her. It's an action that used to be muscle memory, and it takes him a moment to remember what position works best.]

Proper tragedy, innit? Had to raid an old woman's vanity just to find this.

[If he was still dressed in the clothes he showed up in, their color pallets would match perfectly; Charles hadn't worn anything but red and black for decades, until the day he awoke outside Milton. Unfortunately, most of what he's been able to scavenge here has been in shades of brown and grey, save for the ratty jeans he's wearing right now.]

Rest of her stuff was a bit flowery for me.

[guidemyway]

[Ruby gives him the time to get into position. Look it's been awhile since she's had the opportunity to do this on anyone other than herself, and there a serious lack of make up here to even do that.]

At least she left something behind that you could use.

[Ruby could relate. Red and black were pretty much her thing, save for the odd bits of brown and white that she threw in. Most of the stuff she had wound up here with had ended up torn and faded in colour. They were going to have to find some dye at some point if this kept up.

She frowns in a more joking manner.]

Just once I'd love to end up in an abandoned town filled with people who had fashion sense. wouldn't that be a treat?

ii

[solitarysoul]

[Levi has basically no experience with make up, especially boys wearing it, so he doesn't really recognize what Charles is doing with that weird pencil.]

What...what are you doing?

[afterdrop]

[For a second Charles blinks at the boy, trying to parse out his reaction - genuine confusion, or something about to escalate into judgment? Is he going to need to "throw hands", as the kids these days say?

Fortunately, it's not hard to deduce that Levi is just actually confused.]

Eyeliner. [He waves the pencil, as if that's going to explain everything.] Fucking hard to put on inside without any lights, but the mirror's still shit.

[solitarysoul]

Oh.

[...yeah, okay, sure. Not the weirdest thing people from other worlds did.]

Do you, um, I could try to help?

[He clearly has no idea how he would though.]

[afterdrop]

[He's not going to deny that he needs help, but actually having a bloke apply it for him has a tinge of intimacy that he isn't willing to go near, especially not with a stranger. Instead, he lowers the mirror and sits up a little straighter.]

Lemme know if I'm getting too far away from the lash line?

[He holds the pencil still by the inner corner of his eye, waiting for confirmation.]

[solitarysoul]

[He thinks he understands that, so Levi nods. He then moves a bit closer so he can get a better look.]

Okay.

ii

[ployboy]

Tim is stepping through the old store with a fresh haul of dog-fence wiring in his beat up backpack. This would be the sort of thing he would have asked du Lac to source for him- but the past doesn't matter. Tim's got an 'invisible' fence. The Aurora will promise that he stays occupied. Out of people's ways. Maybe even productively so. There's so much crap to do--

and so, lost in a myriad of half-thoughts, Tim can do nothing but come to a halt and blink away his confusion at being called a bloody piece of shit excuse you. One more fraction of a second and Tim, a genius, catches on to what the other guy had meant.

But he's still lost about why the colored pencil and the mirror and the smudge-- and then the wiring in Tim's brain connects.

Oh. Makeup.

"If you put it under your shirt for a minute, it should soften up," he hears himself say. He's had girlfriends. This is a thing that he's learned. Eyeliner in shirts equals easier application and

and Tim sputters-- horror washing over his face--

"Wait, wait, wait. Where did you find that eyeliner-? You're going to get pink eye."

Bro.

[afterdrop]

The brief squaring-up at being spotted by another teenager isn't as sharp as with the town's larger men - Tim is certainly in no danger of reminding Charles of his father - but there's still a split second of tension, his fingers starting to pull the pencil away. As soon as the boy speaks, however, Charles eases, recognizing that he's not in any danger of getting pushed around.

"I washed it!" He waves the pencil as though Tim will be able to see its lack of grime. "Soap and everything."

The real question here, of course, is whether the soap itself was clean.

[ployboy]

Bro.

(It feels good to clown around.)

And is it really clowning around if Tim's being genuine? "He washed it," he exhales in dread and terror. This is like that time Jason (the cool Jason) had thought he could survive the winter with six blankets.

Regaining composure, and stepping closer due to sheer curiosity, as if squinting to inspect the eyeliner will make any of this make sense, Tim squeaks out the heebie-jeebies. Jesus. You people are insane. All of you are insane.

"I think-" he tries again, "I think the girls in my class would take a lighter to it if the point was too hard."

[afterdrop]

The theatrical horror in Jason's voice is a breath of fresh air, and Charles can't help smiling up at him from his hunched seat on the ground. The comparison to girls might have sparked a buried nerve some decades ago, leading to a defensive lecture about fashion and the underground music scene, but he's had a long time to get over any of that.

"Left my lighter back in 2023, mate." Well - the eighties, actually. He hasn't had lungs to smoke with since he was alive. "Not sure holding it over a campfire would have the same effect. Might light up the whole thing."

He's not looking to lose one of the hands he just got back.

[ployboy]

He hid in Mount Justice with a freshly minted Superboy; Cassie had done the whole wig thing, and Bart was Bart. Which is to say, fashion-? Tim knows fashion.

(Debatable.)

He mimes tongs, index and thumb pinching together as he suggests (interrupting but in good spirit, taking the liberty he's denied himself for so long of goofing off), sure holding it over a campfire would ha -- "Hold it over a campfire like s'mores."

If it burns then that's good and nobody will die of pink eye.

Jesus.

"Or at least let me strike a match so I don't feel wholly responsible for letting you go blind for some sick wings."