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singillatim2023-11-01 04:20 pm
ployboy) wrote in singillatim2023-11-01 04:20 pm
Entry tags:
the more you suffer the more it shows you really care.
Who: Tim Drake's broken arm and ____
What: uselessly tidying up the graves at the churchyard
When: Nov 1, 2
Where: church, the community hall
Content Warnings: general depressive moods, some bashing of traditions, a very superficial understanding of a culture, death and talk of death is a given
Tim is actually pretty sure he's managed to snag himself a women's coat: it's black and long and elegant, and it has this faux fur lining it and the big hood. It's very quickly become his favorite garb on account of it fitting stupidly well and the aforementioned fuzziness. Paired with sufficient layers (as if there is such a thing) and the heavy black (sparkly) scarf snaked around his throat, the attire even looks good. Good enough, anyway.
It'll have to do.
Dark circles under eyes seems to be a common symptom of Milton's lifestyles and Tim isn't too far behind already. The fitful sleep has him moving excruciatingly slow as an additional precaution. (If he hurts his arm again he will fucking. shoot. someone in the face in feral retaliation.) The thought makes him snort. It's the closest he's come to emotion since he started his day's pet project. It's hard to scrape off ice and years' worth of snow packed onto stone with only one arm functional, holding the shovel.
A few names on grave markers have been freed. Other memorials just have parts of them newly unobstructed through Tim's efforts but are still well buried in white.
Tim works in silence. Kinda hates it, honestly.
But it's whatever.
Between clearing snow from plots and trudging carefully around the yard, Tim ducks into the community hall to warm himself. Or maybe to hear some chatter around him, to see people who aren't, like, ghosts.
And so goes his day, and the next.
He's never put so much effort into something so fruitless before.
][ooc: prose, brackets, wildcard or bump into this fool elsewhere, go wild! HMU if you want anything specific][
What: uselessly tidying up the graves at the churchyard
When: Nov 1, 2
Where: church, the community hall
Content Warnings: general depressive moods, some bashing of traditions, a very superficial understanding of a culture, death and talk of death is a given
Tim is actually pretty sure he's managed to snag himself a women's coat: it's black and long and elegant, and it has this faux fur lining it and the big hood. It's very quickly become his favorite garb on account of it fitting stupidly well and the aforementioned fuzziness. Paired with sufficient layers (as if there is such a thing) and the heavy black (sparkly) scarf snaked around his throat, the attire even looks good. Good enough, anyway.
It'll have to do.
Dark circles under eyes seems to be a common symptom of Milton's lifestyles and Tim isn't too far behind already. The fitful sleep has him moving excruciatingly slow as an additional precaution. (If he hurts his arm again he will fucking. shoot. someone in the face in feral retaliation.) The thought makes him snort. It's the closest he's come to emotion since he started his day's pet project. It's hard to scrape off ice and years' worth of snow packed onto stone with only one arm functional, holding the shovel.
A few names on grave markers have been freed. Other memorials just have parts of them newly unobstructed through Tim's efforts but are still well buried in white.
Tim works in silence. Kinda hates it, honestly.
But it's whatever.
Between clearing snow from plots and trudging carefully around the yard, Tim ducks into the community hall to warm himself. Or maybe to hear some chatter around him, to see people who aren't, like, ghosts.
And so goes his day, and the next.
He's never put so much effort into something so fruitless before.
][ooc: prose, brackets, wildcard or bump into this fool elsewhere, go wild! HMU if you want anything specific][
no subject
They're all doing this weird thing where they're attempting to keep busy and come to their own rescue or something. There was even one dude Tim had had to dumbly blink after, because he swears the guy had been grinning and toting ice skates around as he went on his merry way.
Anyway. Watching and being watched. Tim's used to it. When the other guy starts to come up, Tim pauses from wiping soft ice off a cross. "It's November, right?" he says, so entirely casual about this.
"Well. That's what the computers said it should be, when I got them to turn on. So that means,"
he really isn't sure he feels any pep, but there is an undercurrent of-- excitement, in his next words. "It's Día de los Muertos."
The Spanish is good. Textbook and Old World, but good.
Contrary to the belief of some Gothamites, however, not every Wayne will spontaneously combust from decades' old traumas at the mere sight of a firearm. Tim gestures to the rifle with his one good hand. Asks, "You any good with that?"
no subject
He nods at the question about his rifle. "I am. Its my service rifle."
He was pretty good with it, too, but that hadn't been needed here quite yet.
no subject
(He should pay more attention to why he can string his thoughts together so much easier when someone appears to be his age. Then again, Occam's razor says that it's just normal practice to want to appease peers.)
"Honestly, I don't know the date for sure. But with the, uh. At night? When there's some electricity? I've logged in to enough desktops and cellphones, and I follow the calendar app from there. Totally foolproof, right?"
Wow that's a lot of talking.
Out of practice, he nods at the confirmation of the rifle without more fuss.
"Day of the Dead ring any bells? I know it's not a... celebration, everywhere. But it's gotten pretty popular."
no subject
"That only happens with the lights are in the sky. I don't think any of us know why or how yet."
He thinks for a few moments, then shakes his head. He figures any 'day of the dead' in his world would include necromancy and ghouls and he's not heard of that. He hopes its not a day people make ghouls go on parade or something. "I don't think so. But, um, where I'm from isn't like where a lot of people are from." Hm. "Actually the people here are from pretty varied places."
And/or time periods, but he still feels weird about that so best not to mention it to a newbie.
no subject
Sometimes it's just a rock, though.
Tim thinks he can read between the lines at what the other means-- but it'd be weird to say aloud, right? It'd be weird for Tim Drake to talk about timestreams and their slips, Mother Boxes and New Gods and dying worlds. And, to be fair
there's a veteran who can't be any older than Tim is, service weapon well in tow, just to his side.
Bear with him, here. "What's your name? I'm Tim. I guess you already figured out I'm with the fresh batch of-- Lopers? Do you know what's up with that name?"
no subject
"I figured you must be new, I've seen pretty much everyone by now. Well, all the people who showed up at the same time as me. I didn't put much thought into the name. Who cares if we're interlopers? Its not like its our choice to be here."
no subject
"The name matters because of the connotation more than the implication," he muses out loud, blue eyes shifting to look upwards for that brief moment. "You don't go around calling people unwanted if your first instinct is to help them."
But... it's just them in this new world, isn't it? Well that's... chilling. (Pun absolutely intended.)
no subject
He hated those places.
no subject
"I doubt it," Tim points out. "To put the voice in all of our heads takes magic or high technology. Milton doesn't seem to be a bustling place for either."
no subject