OPEN POST

[recognize_an_opportunity]

Holy wow look at this open post just look at it isn't it glorious?

Yeah, so, leave me prompts or something.

Comments

choose your poison;

[thenormalsquint]

Re: I'm gonna go with the top one and the bloody hands one because... reasons?

[trenchknives]

[It's not that Jimmy tries to avoid telling Angela where he's going or what he's doing, it's just that... he doesn't mention it a whole lot. He'd argue that it's just because it doesn't come up, but he knows there's more to it than that, too. There's the distinct sense that, if she knew him better than she does, she sure as hell wouldn't want to spend as much time with him as she did.

And he's selfish, he wants her to stick around.

So he just doesn't tell her things. Doesn't tell her why he keeps odd hours, doesn't tell her where he goes or what he does when he's gone. And because they're not 'official,' he figures it doesn't really matter, right?

He's not expecting her to be there when he stumbles into his apartment at midnight. He'd completely forgotten they'd agreed to meet each other, because something had come up. And maybe that's why he's not trying to hide the fact that he's covered in blood, either -- okay, 'covered in blood' is an exaggeration, he guesses, but there's a not insignificant amount of it on his shirt.]

[thenormalsquint]

[She's learned not to ask, not to go digging where she's not allowed, not to let her nosiness lead her to assumptions from lack of information. It's a little silly, but ignoring it is easier. After all, they're not something serious, right? They have sex, go out together, but at the end of the day, neither of them refer to the other as their boyfriend or girlfriend. It worked for them this long, on the outside, at least. Angela never asked for more; she assumed he didn't want more and for the moment, that was okay with her. Live life while you have it. Have fun doing it. Don't get any more serious than you have to because it'll lead to heartache when the other party doesn't feel the same.

So when Angela finds herself ringing his doorbell tonight, she idly wonders where he is because there's no answer. In her luck, it's a warm night where she can wait for him on the front stoop, checking her phone every so often to see if he'd returned her voicemails. She's concerned, but not overly so; she assumes he just had to work overtime... doing whatever he does for a living. Something she can't exactly remember him telling her what it was. They never talk shop when they are together anyway.

But all of this, the thoughts and assumptions she's shoved down into non-existence rush back to the surface when she notices a figure closing in on her. The blond hair, the blue eyes, that telltale limp... it's him. But him with a bloody shirt and spots of it sprinkled elsewhere. Her best bet is that he forgives her for immediately being concerned about his welfare, standing up from her seat on the steps to move closer to him.]

Jimmy? [Her brow is furrowed as if she doesn't really recognize the man standing in front of her, but she does. She's just more familiar with him not covered in blood.] You're bleeding!

[trenchknives]

[Shit, shit, how had he been so stupid to forget that she'd be here tonight? He's usually good about this kind of thing, usually returns her calls, usually remembers when they've got a date set up. But all that tends to go by the wayside when he's got a job to do, and he'd completely blanked out the fact that she'd show up, that she'd be there waiting for him when he finally made his way back home, exhausted and covered in blood.

He can't blame her for being concerned, because shit, he'd probably be concerned if she showed up covered in blood, too. The problem is, there's not really a good explanation for it. Not one that she won't question, anyway. She's been good about that, about not questioning him too much, but this is one of those things that most people don't just let go without a comment.]

It ain't my blood.

[That doesn't make it much better, so he hastens to add an addendum to that.]

I mean, some of it is, but I ain't hurt too bad.

[thenormalsquint]

[Oh, well, if it's not his blood, she shouldn't worry, right? Only that ratchets her worry factor up by about ten. If it's not his, it's someone's. Blood just doesn't appear from out of nowhere. She's quick enough to put together what he isn't really saying, but the reasoning is still missing.]

What happened?

[Her best bet is to ask him about it, purely out of concern and not simple curiosity. Not hurt too bad means he's still somewhat hurt and her touches along his arm are gentle, if not a little fearful.]

pick one, pick all;

[thenormalsquint]

Re: I pick the top two, possibly turning into the bottom two as well!

[trenchknives]

He's been considering this for awhile, but he's never sure how to ask her. He knows she doesn't exactly approve of his job, but he's in too deep to get out quite yet, and there're certain responsibilities he has. Like this goddamned black tie party he's supposed to go to tonight. And he's been told to bring a date.

In truth, he's wanted to ask Angela for quite some time, but he's not certain how she's going to respond. She might scoff at him and tell him that knowing what he does for a living is different than being directly involved in it by going to one of these ridiculous parties. On the other hand, he figures if he shows up with a date, he might be able to mitigate some of the business talk that'll invariably come up.

So sometime that morning, as they're eating a late breakfast, he looks up from his plate and grins up at her. "Hey," he says, tone just a little too casual, "You ever go to many fancy parties?"

[thenormalsquint]

With her silent non-approval of his job (just because she accepts it as a fact of life doesn't mean she approves of it, okay?) in the back of her mind, Angela's been doing a great job of not asking the questions that bite at her when he's gone for long periods. Curiosity's a bitch, though, and it kills her to not dig deep where she wants to.

But bacon helps. It helps this morning to keep her mouth busy during a quiet lull in their conversation, one filled with the sounds of chewing and silverware scraping against plates. It's a nice sort of silent comfort, the fact there's no pressure to perform for him, especially when Jimmy's the one who can't keep his mouth shut.

And she's occupied with nibbling on a slice of bacon when he speaks, gaining her attention pretty quickly to where she's glancing up at him, eyes all curious about such a random question. "I've been to a few for work and my dad's stuff, though. Why?"

[trenchknives]

"Well, I've gotta go to this..."

He waves his fork vaguely, as though by doing so he won't have to explain further. A vague wave of his utensils should sum up everything about his job that he doesn't want to discuss, right? He knows he owes it to her to be more specific, though, if he's going to invite her to something where he very likely could get dragged into business.

"It's one of those black tie things. For the guys I work for. They told me I should bring someone along, 'n I figured you might want to. Free food, free alcohol, the chance to dress up..."

He shrugs. He's trying to make it sound appealing, but he's pretty sure she's not as easily convinced by his casual tones and puppy dog eyes as she used to be.

[thenormalsquint]

It's more her getting used to him being around than it is anything else, especially his line of work, but those eyes still have a thing to them that make her weak in the knees, making it far too easy for her to give into him. So it's a good thing she's sitting down right now, chewing slowly in thought, plugging in the blanks of particulars that Jimmy leaves out.

"For the guys you work for." Angela repeats what he says as some sort of confirmation. She heard exactly what he said and what he was implying. "You want me to be your plus one at a party full of people doing things that you didn't want me getting involved in?"

To be honest, he had her at free food and alcohol, but she can't make this that easy for him.

Holy shit wow this sure is a voicetest. A HIDDEN ONE.

[not_here]

Hey, did you ever think that maybe, fucking maybe, I don't wanna be here? Fuck, I mean, I always said I didn't wanna be there, but I sure as shit don't wanna be here, either. I don't even know what the fuck this place is, and I already know it's fucking crazy! You can't just send me somewhere that's nowhere and expect me to fucking... What am I supposed to do with that? It's just fucking typical! Orders with no purpose! Go here, go there, go up the fucking river on some crazy fucking mission and get...

[Mmm nope. Not going there, for now.]

Fuck it! I don't wanna be anywhere! I'd say I wanna go home, but I haven't got any fucking idea whether that's possible, and besides, I've already said I wanna go home eight hundred million fucking times and nobody's ever listened, so why the fuck would you?

[Why is he laughing? He doesn't know. It doesn't sound completely... together.]

You can kiss my ass, your ideas can kiss my ass, the whole goddamned world can kiss my ass for all I care. I got off the fucking boat, man, and it was a fucking stupid idea, and beyond that, I've got no fucking idea.

HIDDEN BECAUSE IT'S IN THE JUNGLE???

[setyoufree]

[Shit. As if this place hasn't been strange enough.

He'd almost expected it, though. To see one of them, maybe all of them. The ones who'd disappeared along the river. The ones who... It was their mission to be there as much as his, sure, but the way it turned out. They should-- It should never have turned out that way.

And the last time Willard had seen Chef... All right. ]

I--

[He was on the edge of apologizing. What for, he doesn't know. Willard hadn't exactly done anything. It'd been his mission, all right, but Chef had had his chance to turn around...

Maybe. Choice isn't clear-cut, not always, especially not on the river. It'd all seemed inevitable, somehow. Like being pulled into the heart of the jungle, the heart of that... it wasn't madness, and it was. Something that defied all concepts of mad or sane or measurement, something that coiled in and called from the blood, begging pursuit, begging an (end)... Something for which there could never be words.

In any case, there's no telling what Chef knows. What he remembers, or even what happened to him. For all Willard can tell, this isn't even the Chef he knew (though it sure sounds like the guy, sure feels like him too in the way of instinctual recognition, a pull that... all right, that makes Willard almost wish he could miss this guy, almost makes him wish nothing had happened/ jesus, all night, all night in the rain and those absent eyes staring into nothing, staring into darkness splashed in mud and Willard had sworn, could have sworn he'd heard--).

Everything overlaps too easily. Here with what he remembers. He's still walking through the jungle. Everywhere he goes, whatever he does or however he tries to forget. He remembers the stagnation remembers the pressure of slow urgency remembers the voice.

And yeah. This guy (a version of this guy? this guy) had been there. And he'd ended up... Fuck.]

Hey, Chef.

[That'll have to do.]

Re: THAT IS EXACTLY WHY YEP YOU GOT IT

[not_here]

[Oh yeah, oh yeah, he'd know that fucking voice anywhere, even if he couldn't see the guy, because he's been trying to come up with reasons to blame Willard for every little fucking thing that had happened and the way things had turned out (how the fuck had they turned out? Why can't he wrap his fucking head around it? One second he'd been there and the next second he'd been here. Where the fuck is here? That's the million dollar goddamned question, isn't it?)

Problem is, blaming him is pretty fucking hard, when he knows that Willard had been following orders too, and whoever had given those stupid fucking orders had been following orders, and up and up the chain of command it goes until it reaches whoever the fuck's at the top and... who's giving that son of a bitch's orders? God himself? Fuck, thinking about it is going to give him a massive headache.

That doesn't account for the fact that he's still laughing, but who the fuck cares? Willard doesn't care. Willard might not even actually be here.

So what the fuck does he say to that greeting? That it's fucking nice to see him? It's not. It's also not bad, exactly.

Maybe this is the afterlife. What a shitty fucking ripoff if it is.]

So, are you fucking dead, too?

[What the fuck kind of question is that? He could kick himself for being so stupid. He doesn't even know if he's fucking dead. But goddammit, the question's hanging out there, and it's a hell of a lot more honest than a clap on the back and a 'hey how's it been how's it going how's it feel to know that I'd like to fucking blame you but I...'

Well, no, that's not how it's supposed to go, either.]

[setyoufree]

[That's one question answered. Maybe. It could be that Chef knows what happened (what happens before that final moment comes what happened before the ruinous shadow that was Kurtz had fallen blade in hand, because Willard can see it in his mind Willard had visualized it all too clearly, knew how it would be done the force it would require and how Kurtz would have approached the boat and slithered over the railing, how he would have...), or he might just be wound up about this place. Sometimes the easiest way to explain being here is to call it some sort of afterlife, though Willard can't believe in that shit and anyway, he knows that he never died. Maybe he can't present evidence for it, but he knows.

Death would have been too quick after everything, death might even have been a mercy. ...But that sounds hollow. Too easy to say, and if Willard had truly believed that, he couldn't have survived the compound. The will to life had been necessary. He knows this. He doesn't want to dwell on it.

Whatever the case, Willard had been left to linger; had left himself to linger, to speak it truly (never forget your own role, never forget the hand you had in your disintegration). And he's lingering still in this unknown, impossible space. Nothing to wait for, no way to silence it.]

Not as far as I know.

[The laughter is making him uneasy, but he doesn't know what to do about it. Maybe it isn't his business to do anything about it (jesus, hadn't he learned anything? it can't all just drift by, it can't). Maybe Chef just needs to get it out of his system. Ending up here could do a number on anyone, and Chef hadn't ever (ever in the, what, weeks Willard had known him, but those weeks might as well have spanned years) been the most level-headed guy.]

Hey, ah... You should probably try to calm down.

oh but you CAN'T hide from...

[isfallingdown]

[Hey, hey... He knows this guy! Or he's seen this guy before, saw hm real recently-- Or was that recently? How long has it been, how much time has passed over here?

Those are screwy questions. Never mind those questions. Fuck those questions, man! What matters is this guy in front of us. The Photojournalist doesn't know his name and doesn't think he'd ever heard it, but he sure recognizes that face. He has pictures of that face somewhere, on film. This guy hadn't exactly been the happiest camper of a visitor, but he'd been there. He knows about the compound.

He knows about The Man.]

Hey, I know you!

[He's got the camera out, and he snaps a photo. Get the guy before he knows he's caught, make it real nice and candid. Poses can be all right, but what really matters is reaction in the moment, the contortions you can't catch with people expecting to be set and sealed in film.

It's strange, though, seeing the guy like this. The last time The Photojournalist had seen him... Well. It hadn't been a pretty picture, no siree.]

Re: OH FUCK

[not_here]

[Those're words he doesn't fucking like to hear, not anymore. Anyone who says they know him are usually connected to all the fucked up shit that had happened since he'd been in Vietnam. That's all people seem to fucking remember about him these days. Maybe that's why it takes him a long second to look over there at the guy who's talking to him and oh fuck, oh fuck, he knew he'd recognized that fucking voice, and he certainly recognizes that fucking voice.

The last time they'd talked they hadn't exactly hit it off. To put it fucking mildly. By that point, everything had been...

Well, there aren't words for that, either, are there? 'Fucked up' might suffice, but it doesn't even begin to address the depths of horribleness and bullshit that had been unraveling the whole time they'd been on that goddamned boat, and that had all come to a head once they'd gotten to that fucking...

No, no, there're more important things to talk about right now. Like the fact that this fucking guy thinks it's okay to take his photo.]

Hey! What the fuck're you doing here?

[It's a stupid question, isn't it? It seems like just about every fucking person in the world can be here, if they want to be (and fuck, there're some people he'd sure as hell like to hope will never show up.) Of course this crazy son of a bitch is going to be here. Of course.

The irony of calling anyone else a crazy son of a bitch doesn't escape him.]

FRIEND!!?!?!?

[isfallingdown]

[It's cool, man, it's cool. It's an o-kay question, even if the answer's pretty obvious, and The Photojournalist grins, laughs.]

I'm taking your picture.

[Not a trace of sarcasm; just the truth.]

I sure didn't think I'd be seeing you here. Or anywhere. You're a, ah... You must be what they call a real trooper, ahah.

[The guy seems, uh, pretty upset about something. Maybe just about being here. He hadn't sounded pleased about that, at all. He hadn't looked pleased about being at the compound, either. Pointing out every little flaw he could, looking at everything like it was going to jump out and bite him. The Photojournalist had mostly chalked it up to surprise; there was nowhere else in the jungle like the compound. It was like a world of its own, a step up toward the fuckin' sky. And they must have had a long boat ride, sure.

But what's there to be so wound up about here? It's gotta be better than where this guy was, right?]

» ginsberg | if these don't work, let me know?

[thenormalsquint]

Re: They'll work! I'll combine both, in fact!

[just_displaced]

[He's found himself... a little lost. To put it mildly. He doesn't get sent on business trips all that often -- the likelihood of the powers that be trusting him to represent the company is minimal, at best -- and when he does, he's usually with someone. This time, he's all by himself, he's finished the meeting he was supposed to go to, and he has some time to see the sights.

Theoretically. Except that what he's really doing is standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at a map of Boston uncomprehendingly. He can't figure out whether he's holding it upside down, or whether he's just in completely the wrong place from where he's supposed to be.]

I don't see this bridge on the map...

[And, yes, he's talking to himself. There's a part of him that hopes someone will come rescue him, but it doesn't seem likely. Most people avoid obvious tourists. He sure does, when he's at home.]

[thenormalsquint]

[There's fun in getting lost. Being lost means gaining opportunities to see things you would have otherwise missed, experiencing events in one place that wouldn't have happened if you were in the other place you were supposed to be. It's why Angela relishes the chance of getting lost and while she's not the one who has no idea of where they're going, she does overhear somebody else who is.

God help her for being nosy. She can't help but stand next to the man, a fresh hot cup of coffee in her hand, as she peers down at the map in his hands. She snickers just before answering the question that isn't quite directed at her.]

That's because that map is for the next town over.

[just_displaced]

Oh!

[His response is somewhere between a startle reflex -- he didn't exactly expect anyone to address him directly -- and the revelation that what she's saying is absolutely, one hundred percent, undoubtedly correct. He lowers the map a little, looking sheepish, and offers her a shrug.]

I guess that's why I couldn't find the bridge on it.

[He could be more embarrassed about this, he supposes, but frankly, getting lost is just the kind of thing that happens to him, and it could be a whole lot worse. For example, he could have run into her while peering at the map, and caused her to spill that coffee. That would've been just his luck.]

[thenormalsquint]

[Maybe he never expected her. Granted, with how flighty Angela was most times, she wouldn't have expected herself. Plus, it has been almost a month since they've last seen each other--the first and last day they've ever seen each other--so if he didn't think she'd actually show up, Angela wouldn't blame him.

But she's taken the red eye flight to New York in the middle of a busy work week and once she's tossed her luggage onto her hotel bed, she's out the door and on the subway headed for a particular ad agency in the city. There she asks the receptionist for a Ginsberg, Michael Ginsberg, and hopes he didn't call out from work today. Because calling ahead would just be dumb. Only smart, responsible people do that. Smart, responsible people who don't have dark circles under their slightly bloodshot eyes and aren't trying to run away from their own workload.]

[just_displaced]

[No, he hadn't expected her, although there'd been a part of him that had hoped... but it had seemed like a ridiculous hope, since they'd really only known each other for a day, so he'd mostly dismissed the thought. He's been hard at work, anyway, ignoring most of her instructions to not work weekends and to not sleep at his desk.

So when the receptionist calls him and tells him that there's someone here to see him, he's not expecting Angela. He's expecting some client, probably. Someone there to either praise him, yell at him, or heap more work on top of him. Maybe all three.

And he comes out into the lobby, hair mussed, shirt halfway untucked, looking like he's jumped up from working on something and not bothered to make himself presentable. And that's probably true. And then he sees it's her.]

Hey! I didn't think... I didn't expect to see you!

[thenormalsquint]

[It's almost like she made a promise to him and one good thing about her is that she always keeps her promises. At least this promise has the benefit of giving her a place to run away to, to a person who probably won't judge her for doing so.

She's staring down at her feet, the way her leather boots slide against the linoleum floor, looking all the while like the floor is the most interesting thing in this place. Granted, it's New York and not her first time here, but Angela usually people watches forever. This time, she's not, far too busy in her head until she's pulled back into real life by a familiar voice.]

After I told you I would come visit? I'm offended.

[He looks just as messy as she feels on the inside. Exactly how physical does copywriting get? Probably not as physical as the tight hug she's giving him.]

[just_displaced]

I thought that was just something you said. I mean, that's what people say, right? And here you are. You actually showed up!

[Copywriting may not get that physical -- although it often does, between him and Stan -- but he has no qualms about hugging her just as tightly. It's good to see her, legitimately so, and he's not going to be afraid of expressing his happiness for it.]

What brings you to New York?