ʙᴇᴇᴘ ʙᴇᴇᴘ, ʀɪᴄʜɪᴇ (trashing) wrote in valloic, @ 2020-12-22 17:10:00 |
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Everything was fucked and Catra didn’t know if she even cared. Maybe it was the shock of arriving here after setting herself up to get killed, or maybe it was numbness of being overwhelmed by a cocktail of shitty feelings. Who knew, and she didn’t have it in her to pick herself apart and figure out what the latest broken piece of her even was. Truth of the matter was that she was here, alive, and so was Adora, and there was nothing she could do about it. The apartment she settled into would do for now. It smelled foreign and had gadgets she had zero clue on how to even use, what the hell was even the point? Her time was spent curled up on the couch - the safest piece of furniture at the moment, she decided - contemplating the age old question of what the hell do I do now? There was no war to be fought, no armies to command, no military strategy to enact. Sleep hadn’t claimed her in what felt like ages but the light on and off dozes had been sufficient in keeping her functional, at least. Anything with caffeine helped with that too - but she’d get that, later. Her first order of business was popping into a shop and grumpily dropping money onto the counter in exchange for this clothing the workers called a hoodie. It was cold outside, and there was snow (should she get shoes??) and she hated everything about it. Prime had taken her mask and cracked it in half, uttering something about the lines of her not needing it anymore and having something over her head again was an attempt to seek the comfort her lost accessory brought. It was a poor substitute. It did keep her a little warm, she supposed - the damn thing was oversized, swallowing her too-skinny body whole, but it’d do. That was how she entered Galahd, anyway. Her clawed toes did a click-clack against the floors, and her tail gave a restless twitch as it slipped out from under the hoodie. She hadn’t been inside a bar since she was sent to die in the Crimson Waste and this one thankfully didn’t smell like ass and filth. Little victories. “Hey,” Catra called out, voice scratchy with a bit of demand as she got herself situated on a stool. Her claws were out, black as ink and sharper than knives, and she tapped them against the bartop with impatience. “Where can I get that free drink around here?” If this was a trap and Dan was bullshitting her, she might have the energy to track him down and maim him. Galahd was good times, Richie liked working there - it brought him back to his days of struggling in LA, as an ‘up and coming’ comic. He’d worked at a variety of places slinging drinks - from the restaurant gigs with a whole-ass beverage program to memorize and upsell to the good hipster spots where he forever made Moscow Mules to godawful afternoon shifts earning chump change, and making Bloody Mary after Bloody Mary. So yeah, Nyx’s child was a lot of good in comparison - cozy neon lights splashed on the walls and soaking the atmosphere, low ceilings, live music, a vibe that made you feel like you were part of an underground group planning a government coup. None of that was going on, of course. Maybe. Probably. Part of the job was also manual labor, so he’d been in the back unpacking some of the more exotic bottles of booze when he heard a new customer out front. A lady who sounded like she’d been gargling with rocks, which was cool. “‘Eeeeey,” he greeted, coming out wearing a black shirt printed with pink flowers on the one long sleeve and an extra pink flamingo on the front, jeans, and Converse sneakers. “Yeah, here’s the place for the free drink. I’m guessing you’re new? Welcome to the shitshow.” Because this place was wild, and maybe he was still a little bitter about how apparently a whack-ass teenage version of him had been here before and dating Eddie and now he just wanted to light everything on fire. But anyway. “What can I get you?” Oh, good, Dan was telling the truth. That was nice. Catra felt a splash of relief that she hadn’t taken the word over some stranger on a communications advice for nothing. Her pride’s been damaged enough. The slight nod offered was the answer to the you’re new inquiry. As for the question of what to even order, uhhhh. The response wasn’t immediate. She was stumped, and the mismatched eyes that watched him with scrutiny blinked owlishly wide. Fuck, she didn’t even know what she wanted. Most of what she’d sampled was smuggled into the Fright Zone after raids, like the overly sweet Plumerian wine and bitter ales from various villages. Catra didn’t know what the hell they were called, though she doubted anything she could recall was offered here. “I don’t know,” she answered stupidly, and sighed as her fingers went to pinch the bridge of her freckled nose. “Just - whatever. Surprise me. Whatever doesn’t taste like soupy bath water will do.” Cat lady was very clearly a cat. It was neat though, Richie wasn’t really phased - after all, the minotaur had a bagel cart and his morning coffee was usually served up by a werewolf or whatever. This whole island was a goddamn D&D game, and leaning heavily on magic. Point was, cat lady would fit in nicely - even if right now it looked like she was having a hard time and didn’t just hit the ground running. He didn’t understand people who did. Like, the constant universe hoppers who ended up here with their friends from other pocket dimensions of Bizarre like what the actual fuck. “A surprise that doesn’t taste like bathwater, coming up,” he stated cheerfully, putting together a raspberry martini for her - but the kicker was the alcohol that changed colors; it looked like a galaxy, a myriad of purples, blue, a hint of pink. The way the stars and planets collided, a crash of colors - he thought she might like that, for some reason. If not, he could go fuck himself. “Have a rough landing into this world?” he asked, sliding the glass toward her. Okay, weird - was booze supposed to look that pretty? The glass it was served in was also odd, not like a mug or anything. Catra’s nose twitched, her senses investigating the scents of the ingredients mixed together. “Does anyone actually have a smooth landing here?” she inquired, lifting a lone eyebrow. If so - fuck them. Must be nice. She pushed back the hoodie and behold, cat ears outlined in dark fur and soft. And after running her fingers once through the mess of her hair, she realized she needed to do something about her forehead being so damn naked. Bangs, maybe. “Not really missing anything important back where I came from, so.” Shrug. Catra gave a tentative taste test to the drink and, yeah, that was good. Sweet with a bite that made her textured tongue tingle. “It’s not the worst situation I’ve been in.” A complicated one, maybe - but not the worst. “Some do - have a smooth landing here. Or they’re like, brought back from the dead. I don’t know how it works. But my landing wasn’t particularly smooth either,” Richie shared, leaning against the bartop. He always liked having stuff to do with his hands, liked to stay busy, but he’d already wiped everything with one of those clichéd towels - his workspace was spic and span, he’d cleaned the glasses too. Bartending was so different than performing but also weirdly similar? Even if he couldn’t exactly zone out on stage, like he sometimes did here. But he was getting ahead of himself. “I’m Richie,” he went for the introductions, though if the newcomer enjoying her raspberry martini wanted to be left alone, that was cool too. “Not the worst, huh? Do tell.” Depending on what the worst was, she may have earned some cheese fries. He was a sucker for a rollercoaster of a tale. The bouts of sleep deprivation she’d been stuck with either resulted in a rage-induced mania that had her paranoid, making her unable to trust a damn soul - or in rare moments (the present situation included) a bit docile. The exhaustion was steeped into her bones, her muscles ached and underneath the thin fur was skin blooming with bruises from fighting off a dozen or so clones. Catra was fucking done. Or she wanted to be, anyway. The ‘cats have nine lives’ saying was utter bull but if true, she should have burned through them by now. “Catra,” she ricocheted with the sound of her name. Her lips rubbed together together in thought, unsure why the hell she’d even regale the guy with a tale of the mess she barely managed to avoid but. Well. What did it matter? Shoulders lifting into a second shrug, she took a more plentiful sip of her drink and rolled with it. “Long story short, I tried to make up for my several disastrous fuck-ups by rescuing my ex-best friend’s new best friend and getting her off the space ship we were abducted on by some self-proclaimed emperor of the universe. Staying behind was the only way to ensure it worked, and let’s just say I was prepared to not get off the ship alive.” Except she did, supposedly, and didn’t remember it. That was another can of worms she couldn’t bring herself to think too deeply about for the moment. Well, there was a spaceship in that tale so - Richie definitely thought it was interesting automatically. He’d never been to space. He never really wanted to go (thanks to knowing an Eldritch horror had crash-landed in his hometown, from space), but it seemed cool. Basically one big dark blanket - black, yellows, whites, crescent moons and other shapes. Maybe other colors too, blotches of blue and green of all the different planets because surely Earth people hadn’t discovered all of them. “Be right back,” he replied, tapping the bartop once and then standing up straight. He had more to say about Space Adventures but he needed to take care of something first. When he returned, it was with a plate of cheese fries - cheese still bubbling, in fact, piping hot and sprinkled with bacon and jalapeños. Not like he bought cheese fries for every newcomer who walked in here, but for this one - why not? “Here, try these,” he suggested. “They’re on me, because you did the whole self-sacrifice thing on a spaceship about to blow up. That’s pretty badass.” And because, well, he wasn’t made of stone - Catra the catgirl seemed tired. Thanks to newbies always wandering to Galahd for the free drink, he got the whole gamut of reactions when it came to finding themselves in Vallo. Her reaction sort of mirrored his own. He’d been one-hundred percent done when he got here too. During Richie’s absence she’d polished off the martini and contemplated another because why not, it wasn’t as if she had anything important to do while she was stranded here. Then he brought out that concoction of - hmm, sniff, what even was this? She wasn’t too well-versed in some actual foods so she had no idea what the hell he brought out (she recognized the cheese, sure) but it smelled stupid good. Her pupils even dilated at the sight of it. A little bit, not a lot. “Didn’t blow up,” she muttered, mildly distracted thanks to whatever the the fuck this mess was in a basket. Catra went to pluck a fry out and held it for two seconds before she had to set it down because, ow, hot. “Apparently I just get brainwashed which is probably even worse than death, but - uh, anyway. What is this you’re even giving me? I like the smell but it looks like it’s going to ruin my stomach.” People here were too nice and it was almost annoying. Catra usually didn’t know how to handle nice without being a dick about it. Not that her incredible ability to drive everyone who's ever cared about her away ended well for her, surprise. She should probably consider a different tactic. Like gratitude, let’s start with that. “Uh, thanks, by the way. I mean.” Awkward. So awkward. Ugh. “Yeah. Thank you.” “No problem. They’re cheese fries. Food of the gods - well, not really,” Richie tacked on there. “Close enough though. A lot of shit here will ruin your stomach but so worth it.” He paused to pour a pint for someone else who wandered up to the bar - it was about that time where the live music was about to start, so people were looking for stuff to sip on while listening. He just let her enjoy those cheese fries while bustling about, working the bar, then when he had a lull he came back to make sure Catra like, hadn’t burnt her tongue or anything - though he had a feeling if she did, he’d be hearing about it. “The kid I like, uhhh - sort of adopted, I guess? Anyway, she’s from like the 1800s so I’ve been showing her plenty of tasty bad for you shit. Hit me up if you ever want any more recommendations.” Basically he was used to providing culinary Tour de Frances or whatever, for newcomers who didn’t have the glory of pizza and potato skins in their homeworlds. No burns, thankfully. Catra had the sense to let this creation known as cheese fries cool before she tried again, using the point of her claws to do most of the extraction. It kept the mess on her hands to a minimum. And it was good, this stuff - she hadn’t realized how much her body was craving sustenance until now. Prime had offered extravagant alien meals on his ship like some condescending fuckwad of a host and being in the presence of that had turned her appetite to nothing. By the time Richie returned she had put a good dent into it - her stomach was never all that big, though, and she was filling up quickly. A small and nostalgic, traitorous part of her wished Adora was here to help with this. She’d inhale in seconds and it’d be the grossest thing to witness. “So, wait - is that what everyone does here?” she asked, pointing a fry at him. “Eat and drink? Most of the people I’ve spoken to have a list of recommendations of what to try. We’re really supposed to carry on with life like this until we randomly disappear?” It was too easy. She wasn’t complaining, honestly - but she really did not deserve this outcome at all. “Where’d you end up coming from, anyway?” The food had her in a better mood, and she was feeling a little more conversational. Richie had listened to the summary of her mess. She was admittedly a little curious about other people’s situations, as if she’d find a pattern between it all that would lead to a logical explanation for this predicament. But she also doubted that. He seemed like a guy that’d have an interesting story at least. Seriously, look at his shirt. What kind of design even was that? “Yeah, stuffing the face and drinking seems to be a common theme. People like, find jobs and make friends and - I dunno. Just try to build a life here? It’s hard,” Richie added, and he wouldn’t bullshit about that. “Because it’s kinda unstable. The magic mambo jumbo giveth and also taketh away. But that doesn’t stop idiots from trying.” Like him. He had Enola, and Max, and other friends - and now Eddie was here too, which was equal parts amazing and confusing. Amazing because he’d missed Eddie more than anything, and confusing because of other reasons. As for his story, well, that was a thing too. “I’m from a place called Derry. Former home of a former Eldritch horror from space. It sort of infected the town and gave it this evil vibe. The monster would eat a bunch of kids to fill up and then go into hibernation for twenty-sevenish years. My friends and I, we fought it one summer and forced it into early hibernation - then we came back when it returned and killed it for good. I got here after that whole thing, and it was...rough. Not all of us survived,” he pushed his glasses up on his nose, hands wringing a towel. It got easier to talk about it though, the more he did. So he guessed that was something. Catra propped her elbow on the bar, chin resting into her palm as she listened to this - horror story? Yeah, a fucking horror story because a monster eating kids wasn’t something that conjured up butterflies and happy feelings. It sounded like one of those cautionary tales she’d heard from Beast Island, back on Etheria. “Well,” she started with a squint. “That sucks.” It was the best she could come up with - sorry was cheap and meaningless here. Richie seemed to have acclimated really well regardless of the circumstances, and it gave her a tiny flicker of hope she wasn’t sure what to do with. “Don’t take this the wrong way but, uh, you don’t look like someone equipped to kill some alien monster. How’d you guys do it? Magic? Explosives? Hope it was explosives, blowing things up is at least fun.” God, no. He was no monster slayer - he was too nervous, too pukey, to even consider that as a career opportunity. Embedding a hatchet in Bowers’ skull had been enough for Richie - the thought of riding on an adrenaline high while simultaneously riding into battle on a war elephant or whatever just was a big ol’ fat NOPE. “Well, part of it was that we were stronger together,” he said. “We tried this ritual our friend told us about but that didn’t work. In the end we sort of...bullied it to death. Made it feel small so we could crush its heart. When it didn’t feel powerful, it got scared, so we capitalized on that. Words can hurt as much as weapons, blah blah - though I definitely wish it was explosives, dude, trust me.” That was way cooler. Then again, blowing shit up in the cisterns would mean bad things, most likely. “Got psychic powers out of it though?” Another shrug. He hadn’t started freelancing yet, since he was still so new at it and was learning, but he was feeling more and more confident about it so maybe he’d take that up. Soon. Wait. Wait. They bullied a space monster? To death? Catra blinked several times, processing that concept. Then her mouth curled into a wry grin, something genuine and not crazed and manic like the ones she’d delivered on the Velvet Glove. “You basically turned a thing that eats kids for breakfast into a little bitch by saying mean shit. That’s the best thing I’ve heard so far.” God, if only all alien horrors from space went down like that. She’d love to make Horde Prime ugly-girl cry with his four creepy eyes and tentacle hair. Payback for the supposed brainwashing he was planning to put her through. As for the psychic thing, she assumed that could be lumped in under the magic category with how her brain filed things. Catra wasn’t a fan, but dealing with it had become part of life. “Not sure I’d say psychic powers are a good thing but - best of luck with that?” She bit into a fry. “Seems like a hassle. What do you even do with it?” “It was a hassle at first but I found someone to help teach me more about it and how to use tarot cards,” Richie said - he was forever grateful to Persephone for nudging him to reach out to Adam, who happened to be a pretty cool teacher even if he was a 50-year-old man in a 20ish-year-old’s body. Not like, literally. But personality-wise. “I’ll probably start...doing readings for people? I had someone ask me to join their gang,” he snorted. He wasn’t interested in the ladies, not in the boning sense, but he had to admit that he’d probably make exceptions for both Charlize Theron and Calamity Ashe, who made pink explosives and was basically a cowgirl. It was pretty hot. He wasn’t blind (except when he took his glasses off). Overall, he’d just see where the wind blew him in that regard. He already had two jobs so he would have to figure out how to balance a third. “Lots of hassles ‘round here though, Cat, but we stick together for the most part. You need anything, you let me know. I don’t know all the answers but I’m real good at bullshitting a lot of things.” Catra hummed, thinking. Her stomach felt a little knotted at his offer, completely unrelated to the grease fest she was currently working on. She was literally the last person ever to deserve any ounce of kindness. She’d done too much shit, hurt too many people. All she did was hurt - hurt others, hurt herself. It was a cycle she thought she could only break by dying and here she was, very much alive. But no one else knew about all the damage she’d done. Just her and one other person. Making buddies and having a good time made her feel like a fraud. “Sure,” she said, unsure if she was even being truthful. Richie didn’t need to know that. “Um, thanks again for all of -” A hand gesture towards the fries and empty glass. “This. None of it tasted like crap so kudos to you.” Her people skills could use some refining but, hey. Catra was trying. As long as she didn’t come here and call him a gay loser (which he was, but no one else got to call him that except the other Losers), and spit in his face or throw a drink at him - whatever, it was fine. Everyone had their shit they’d been through, and shit they’d done - he wasn’t around to judge or give a fuck, really. No one was perfect - sometimes trying was all you could do. He could tell that cat lady was prickly about the niceness (Jesus, how had folks treated her back in space?) so he wouldn’t go on and on about it. Most of the time he didn’t consider himself super nice anyway (they called him Trashmouth for a reason) but maybe he was doing some trying of his own here in Vallo too. “Heeeey, thanks,” Richie grinned goofily. “Kudos taken. I gotta get the rest of these fuckers - “ And earn big tips, big bucks, yay customer service, “...so I’ll leave you with the comfort of cheese fries.” There was a half-smile she offered him, something that disappeared as quick as it came but amicable. Sincere, at least. Richie was nice - she didn’t know if she’d stick around to really get to know him, because who knows when she’d lose her mind next or if she would even be around log. The range of time given to her was a few days to maybe over a year, that’s how long people could say in Vallo. It was unpredictable at best. But if she was here for a while, she’d make her own way. Catra always did. And she’d probably come back for that drink again, and maybe figure out more of this food situation because she had weight to gain back anyhow. “Toodles,” she waved with a wiggle of her claws. |