make a new plan, Stan. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lazyinlove) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
exsiliumlogs2013-06-26 01:13 am
lazyinlove) wrote in exsiliumlogs2013-06-26 01:13 am
(open) The wall
Date & Time: Tuesday (today)
Location: Out in the city!
Characters: Stanley Lucerne and whoever stumbles across him.
Summary: Stan has the feeling he could plaster a wall if he set his mind to it...so he gives it a shot. He hasn't recruited anyone, so all are as likely/welcome to be there as you want.
Warnings: Cursing. He's an American teenage boy from the modern era. Also drugs, whoops. You know, stuff like that.
((OOC And any format is fine, I'll follow. Just starting in prose because it's less work on my phone.))
It wasn't a gradual thing. Gradually, it might've made sense. Maybe he could've mulled it over in his sleep and worked things out. People did that. Famous people. He'd fallen asleep in many a history class to the drone of 'and in a dream, inspiration solved x huge historical problem.'
Instead, it was sudden. As soon as that lady with the weird speech patterns had suggested it, he'd known it was in there. The ability to help. The knowledge of how to go about rebuilding. Which was weird, frankly, since he'd never so much as lifted a hammer before in his life. Yeah, sure, there were tools in the garage back home. His dad might've even known how a few of them worked, though that was debatable. A certainty was that he had never even attempted to show them to Stanley, who had always made his disinterest in manual labor known to those around him.
So it was more than a little unexpected when this morning he woke with not only the feeling that he was capable of helping in the aftermath of the bombing, but the alien new feeling of actually wanting to do so. Which was how he found himself gathering stones and materials, and quietly setting to work. It didn't even matter what the buildings had been before, because he wasn't interested in helping anyone specific. It was sort of like being possessed.
Then again, it could've been worse. He could've been levitating and vomiting pea soup. That would've sucked...
Location: Out in the city!
Characters: Stanley Lucerne and whoever stumbles across him.
Summary: Stan has the feeling he could plaster a wall if he set his mind to it...so he gives it a shot. He hasn't recruited anyone, so all are as likely/welcome to be there as you want.
Warnings: Cursing. He's an American teenage boy from the modern era. Also drugs, whoops. You know, stuff like that.
((OOC And any format is fine, I'll follow. Just starting in prose because it's less work on my phone.))
It wasn't a gradual thing. Gradually, it might've made sense. Maybe he could've mulled it over in his sleep and worked things out. People did that. Famous people. He'd fallen asleep in many a history class to the drone of 'and in a dream, inspiration solved x huge historical problem.'
Instead, it was sudden. As soon as that lady with the weird speech patterns had suggested it, he'd known it was in there. The ability to help. The knowledge of how to go about rebuilding. Which was weird, frankly, since he'd never so much as lifted a hammer before in his life. Yeah, sure, there were tools in the garage back home. His dad might've even known how a few of them worked, though that was debatable. A certainty was that he had never even attempted to show them to Stanley, who had always made his disinterest in manual labor known to those around him.
So it was more than a little unexpected when this morning he woke with not only the feeling that he was capable of helping in the aftermath of the bombing, but the alien new feeling of actually wanting to do so. Which was how he found himself gathering stones and materials, and quietly setting to work. It didn't even matter what the buildings had been before, because he wasn't interested in helping anyone specific. It was sort of like being possessed.
Then again, it could've been worse. He could've been levitating and vomiting pea soup. That would've sucked...
no subject
Lightly: ]
But then it isn't really dying, is it? Just swapping bodies. Miss Emily's had a few already, poor girl.
Anywaaaaay--
If they can pinch people from other places, why not houses, too? Don't know about you, but I'd looooooove a big castle, these apartments are so dreary~!
no subject
[He'll make a note that this guy has died before-not a huge surprise, but good to know- and then skip out of that particular rope, with no acknowledgement.]
They're all dank and cold and gross, dude. At least ask for a beach house if you're ordering custom.
no subject
[ --and Rainsworths. He'd been gesticulating with his cane (LIKE A CRAZY PERSON), but now he sets it down again, a loud tap on the pavement.
Sulkily: ]
Besides, what's the point of a beach house without a beach?
no subject
[Luckily, he's great at dodging people's wild gesticulations. Plenty of practice.]
no subject
Well... I could tell you....
[ His voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. ]
But it wouldn't do you much good, I'm afraid. Once the stoats move in, you're done for.
no subject
Considering he's spent half of the conversation talking to a puppet, it's probably the latter.]
Yeah, okay. Well. I should get back to the Sisyphus gig, Mr. Clown. It's been real.