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Post by PARIS CHOU on Jun 10, 2013 16:17:18 GMT -8
tagged: Renegade. time: May 5TH, 1:00. speech: paris. notes: shoes bottoms tops. Texting while walking was a skill that Paris had perfected down to a science. He could hold full conversations while happily tip-tapping away on his iPhone and still fail to trip over or bump into every haphazard grate, pole, and passerby the city had to offer, hopping neatly over and around what looked like imminent danger as though he had eyes on top of his head. Texting and walking while just a little bit tipsy, however, was a different story. Add in some vodka-cranberry and post-midnight LA gloominess and you got the perfect recipe for disaster.
So far Paris wasn't doing too badly. He'd only stumbled once or twice; nothing like the haggard twentysomethings spat out of the clubs at midnight and left tottering about Hollywood like baby deer in their twelve-inch heels. Now that was a nightmare. Unfortunately, the general clutter of skid-row didn’t exactly work in his favor, but it was this or brave the long way around to Gideon’s place. On his own. In the dark. A little shudder overtook him that had nothing to do with the night time chill. Ugh, no thanks.
Call him crazy but he’d rather just take the plunge and get all the creepiness over in one go. There were probably worse things he could do out there than picking his way through a handful of homeless guys, right? Though there were several people Paris could think of right off the top of his head who would undoubtedly kill him if they knew where he was or what he’d been doing. Rhiannon, for one, would have a bone or ten to pick with him about the fake ID burning a hole in his pocket. But desperate times called for desperate measures and he could have written a book on the abysmal dearth of nightlife in San Marino.
It wasn’t like he was trying to pass for twenty-one anyway— just eighteen. His babyface still kept him out of anywhere really fun, but tonight Paris wasn’t unduly bothered by that. Avalon had been a riot. Wild oats had been sewn in a sea of bodies, bass, and glitter, and he’d left exhausted, happy, and feeling like he’d successfully carpe-ed the hell out of this diem… or rather this noctem. There wasn’t a thing in the world that could rain on his parade, not even slogging through this creepy hellhole.
Flicking over to Tumblr mobile, Paris opened up a new text post. He didn’t notice the gaping maw of an uncovered storm drain hugging the curb until his next step hit thin air, ensconced in the fluorescent glare of his screen, but suddenly the ground was rushing up to meet him. Elbows smacking against the pavement with a yelp, he found himself clinging to the lip of the hole as the glow of his iPhone skittered off into the street. "Ew, gross!" he wailed, kicking his legs against the inside wall, trying to pull himself up. "No no no, I am so not dying in the sewers. Not today. Not in these pants!" |
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Post by PASHA MIKHAYLICHENKO-MOLOTOV on Jun 11, 2013 19:33:21 GMT -8
tagged: Paris Chou. time: May 5th, 1PM. speech: pasha. notes: - - -. Nighttime walks were a daily occurrence for Pasha. There was just something about the night that struck the right chord with him, but of course, since that accident where he got his hips crushed and where he’d nearly been killed by that kraken, it became a less common occurrence. He didn’t skip out on them entirely, but now it was every two or three nights that he put on his coat and went for a walk at the crack of dawn.
This time wasn’t so much dawn as it was a little past midnight. Why not? He had his own time at night, so he would spend it as he saw fit. Of course, skid row wasn’t his ideal, but with few people and most of them willing to scatter at the sight of him, it was the best solitary time he could get. He wasn’t too keen on walking near bodies of water, anyways. He also quite hated squid, and anything that vaguely resembled kraken of any sort, but perhaps that was just him.
But skid row itself, he really had no aversion to. Pasha was big enough for those looking for an easy target to back off from, and he was rather heavily armed on top of that. He always had something with him, and he looked like the sort who could break off a pipe somewhere and use it to his advantage. His mind was occupied by other things, mostly paperwork and difficulties with new transfers, but there was family on the mind, too. He hadn’t seen either of his sons in a while, or his sister or nephew. They were all back in Russia, coldest place on earth and all. He’d seen them a couple times over a webcam, spoken to them over the phone… Face to face was something else entirely.
So the night was quiet as it was, which wasn’t at all bad until he heard the screaming. Something high pitched and distressed, but there didn’t sound like there were multiple voices. Pasha paused where he was, seeming to perk in place, weighing in whether he wanted to go or just walk on and forget about it. He took a short breath, furrowed his brow, and then walked in the direction of the screaming.
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Post by PARIS CHOU on Jun 12, 2013 19:07:20 GMT -8
tagged: Renegade. time: May 5TH, 1:00. speech: paris. notes: shoes bottoms tops. Paris swore to every deity under the sun that he would do some goddamn pushups of he ever got out of this alive. He hated sweating and had an irrational fear that if he touched a barbell he'd explode into beefy muscles and never be cute again, but noodle arms were evidently a hazard to his health. Despite his best efforts at wriggling, he was sliding steadily backwards and he was about ninety percent sure at this point that this was going to end in gross places. “Hello?” he panted. “Is anybody out there? I need… some help…”
Miraculously, his ears pricked to the sound of footsteps… oddly heavy ones, but to be honest Paris didn’t really care who he managed to rope into being his knight in shining armor just as long as they actually got there before he went careening into the abyss. This damsel was in a whole lot of distress—he’d take whatever he could get. Realistically, Paris was expecting some ratty homeless guy; maybe another wayward partygoer or a cop on patrol. What he didn't expect was for the fucking Terminator to peel himself out of the shadows.
Paris froze like a rabbit, all the muscles in his core shivering to keep him still and out of the hole. Okay, that was intimidating. More than intimidating. Shit shit shit, he was going to die. He was going to get mugged, possibly shanked, possibly cut up into tiny bits and sold on the black market by Godzilla in a suit. Hell no. Maybe he should just let go of the lip, brave the fall, scream like hell, and hope that somebody found him before morning.
… Then again, it was even darker down there than it was on the street. Plus Paris had no idea how far down it went. It could be something like six feet… or it could be worse. It also lacked wifi, and considering his patience for just about anything was directly correlated to the number of bars on his iPhone, that was just unacceptable. Paralysed by indecision, Paris opted to simply hold his breath and wait. If things got any sketchier, it was down the rabbit hole for him. If an uncovered storm drain of all things turned out to be the end of him, he was going to come back as a ghost and sue the pants off this city! |
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Post by PASHA MIKHAYLICHENKO-MOLOTOV on Jun 16, 2013 19:21:10 GMT -8
tagged: Paris Chou. time: May 5th, 1PM. speech: pasha. notes: - - -. He really was expecting for somebody to get mugged, because realistically, it was skid row and that was all that happened in these parts. Why did he decide to go walking out here again? He took a slow breath, pushing through the dark towards the sound of scraping and the occasional distressed cry for help. No other voices and no shouting, so perhaps he’d be pleasantly surprised this time around.
But what he did find was entirely different. He peeled himself from the shadows, coming out like some hulking beast. Only thing he was missing were those glowing red eyes to be a devil, and pale blue eyes seemed to do well enough. There was a little girl halfway stuck in a drainage pipe that happened to be left open. Well, he thought it was a girl. Pink hair certainly pointed in that direction.
He came up to the girl halfway in the ground. ”Here, let me help you up.” His accent was thicker and heavier than a brick, and anybody who listened in would’ve immediately known he was Russian. He hadn’t spent too much of his life speaking English, after all.
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Post by PARIS CHOU on Aug 3, 2013 17:19:26 GMT -8
tagged: Renegade. time: May 5TH, 1:00. speech: paris. notes: apologies for lateness I give you a bucket of tears and confetti and my firstborn child. Paris had to wonder if there had been anything funky lurking in his drink tonight because this was all getting a little surreal. When he’d left the house today he hadn’t exactly planned on ending up down some creepy back alley with a giant Slavic bear dude. At least not in this context. At the offer of help, he stared up at the man like he was a foreign object. “ Oh.”
Well, that was considerably easier than he’d thought it would be. Also less painful. But man, that accent was something else. It took him a full two beats to process what the guy had even said. “Uhhm… thanks?” he blinked slowly, brain kicking back into gear. Considering the guy looked clean, well-dressed and hadn't lunged for his phone or bag and taken off, it was probably safe to assume he wasn't interested. The hand Paris was offered almost comically swamped his own and the pinkette eyed it dubiously.
"Not that I’m not all aboard this rescue train, but on the off chance that you're going to hurt me… I'd like to put it out there that I’ve got pepper spray on me and you should probably not," he lied, not so much scared anymore as wanting to cover his bases. His voice shook a little, but only with the effort of holding himself up. Now that he only had one free arm to do it with, things were getting a bit difficult. “Like, no offence, but it’s after midnight in the belly of sketchsville and the size of your biceps vaguely concerns me.”
Actually, the size of this dude in general was worrying. At just over five foot even, most of the world was taller than Paris. But not that tall. The guy looked rough to boot… and was that a scar on his face? Paris hoped he wasn’t getting himself into anything weird. |
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Post by PASHA MIKHAYLICHENKO-MOLOTOV on Aug 18, 2013 15:21:33 GMT -8
tagged: Paris Chou. time: May 5th, 1PM. speech: pasha. notes: - - -. Pasha was pretty sure that if he wanted to, he could just haul the little girl out of there with one hand and by the collar of her shirt. He was still just a tad confused over the gender of the person that was caught in the pipe, but he supposed it wouldn't matter too much at the moment. Pasha barely paused for a second when the pepper spray was brought up; hell, he nearly rolled his eyes. People tended to think that pepper spray was the be all and end all of most defensive weapons.
"I've had worse things in my eyes." Which was concerning as it was, but he heaved and pulled the girl up with one hand. Well, now that she was out of the pipe, he realized that she was rather small. Light and small and armed with nothing but pepper spray didn't phase him, and she had been pulled out of the drainage before she was plopped straight onto the ground without so much as a pause.
"Well, you shouldn't have wandered this way, then." What was a little pink girl doing in this part of town, anyways?
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Post by PARIS CHOU on Aug 19, 2013 3:05:04 GMT -8
tagged: Renegade. time: May 5TH, 1:00. speech: paris. notes: shoes bottoms tops. Lifted straight out of the hole like a kitten by its scruff, Paris found his feet back on blessed terra firma. So far it seemed he’d escaped with nothing but a couple scrapes and shivery noodle arms from holding himself over the lip for so long, and while bumps and bruises were never cute, sewage chic was a look he was glad he hadn’t had to try on for size. His left knee throbbed a little, but he wasn’t unduly worried; it had probably just been twisted weirdly when he’d fallen. It was his pride he’d wounded more than anything else.
Honestly, Paris wasn’t super keen on explaining the whole short-cut-cum-disaster-plan with his heroic rescuer, especially when it had flopped so spectacularly. “It’s not my fault this whole block has fantastically shitty plumbing,” he pouted as he dusted himself off. “If it weren’t for the jaws of Hell opening up under my feet, I would’ve been in and out of this creepy place in like ten minutes.” Paris walked over to pick up his phone and… ow. Maybe he’d twisted that knee a little harder than he’d thought—putting his weight on it sent a twinge of pain up his leg.
“Oh no, not now, why now,” he groaned. He still had another few blocks to go before he even got close to a decent bus stop, let alone all the way to his friends’ place. Looking down at his phone told him he’d probably find better service on the bottom of the ocean than this dump. No luck there. Hopping back to the curb, Paris grabbed his rescuer’s sleeve for balance and sat himself down gingerly. Wow. The guy was a lot taller closer up. A lot. Paris had to lean back a little to look up at him even before he sat down.
Wait. Lightbulb.
Paris tugged the sleeve he was holding. “Would you… maybe give me a lift up to West Seventh?” he asked the man sheepishly. It was sink or swim here, so he turned up the charm a little. “I can just try to hail a cab from there. Pretty please? I know you already went to all the trouble of helping me out but… I think I did something to my leg when I tripped into the hole and, well, I’m worried about what’ll happen if I stay here. It wouldn’t be too much trouble, would it, Mr…?” Come to think of it he hadn’t gotten a chance to ask the man’s name yet. Then again, the guy hadn't become more useful than he was scary until just a moment ago. |
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