InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Poopsicle"

Sid Jenkins (emo_underdog) wrote in vas_captio_rpg,
@ 2009-04-25 00:04:00

Entry tags:

!complete, day 05, location: forest, logan, sid jenkins

Day Five - Morning
Who: Sid Jenkins and Logan
What: Arrival
When: Day Five, early morning
Where: In the forest to start
Rating: R, language
Status: Complete

It had been raining when Sid had curled up in that box in the alley a few blocks from Times Square. Somehow, it had seemed like a good idea at the time to leave Bristol for New York City to find Cass. He hadn’t really thought it through, though, and he really, really should have, he realized pretty quickly when he hadn’t had enough money for a motel room, was completely lost, and still hadn’t found Cass after a whole day of searching. His eyes opened slowly and he felt like hell. Since when did sharing a bottle of whiskey - with a hobo, no less; at least this one hadn’t peed on his leg - knock him on his arse?

“Bollocks,” he sighed sleepily, pulling his coat in around himself. His boyish features were drawn down in the ever-present kicked-puppy expression he wore like a pro even when he wasn’t trying. When he finally took a look around and really absorbed his surroundings, his brow furrowed and he sat up, tugging his skewed beanie down around his ears and over his forehead. Adjusting his glasses, he raised his eyebrows. Trees and dirt? Well, the dirt he supposed he could understand but what the bloody fuck were trees doing in Times Square?

That was when it hit him. He wasn’t in Times Square. Had he wandered off in a drunken stupor? Sid wasn’t even aware that there were forests in New York City - it certainly hadn’t been in the brochure - but this didn’t look the way he’d expected Central Park to look, either. Actually, he didn’t even know where Central Park was but he was pretty sure he’d have remembered walking that far, had he actually done it. “Shit,” he sighed and got to his feet. In the process, he kicked something and looked down quizzically before bending to pick up a small box. “Vas what?” he read aloud, looking confused and slightly annoyed. Americans spoke English, didn’t they? He was almost positive they did, even though he’d come across his fair share of foreign languages walking the streets of Manhattan and trying to get the attention of passers by to show them Cassie’s picture. This, though, was most definitely not English. “‘Go get her, Sid. Go find Cass, Sid. It’s meant to be, Sid. Get on the plane, Sid.’ Twats,” he muttered. "Chelle! Tony! Right, you're hilarious, you can come out now!" he snapped.

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clawed_one
2009-04-24 11:17 pm UTC (link)

Logan groaned as he woke. Nausea flirted with his stomach, and he was flat on his face. Must have been one hell of a party. Or a fight. One of the two. He groaned again and shook his head. He'd ridden Cyke's bike all day and half the night before finding some dive of a motel with a bar nearby to crash at ... must've decided to head for the bar rather than the bed.

About then, his surroundings registered, and half a second later, Logan was on his feet, adrenaline destroying the lingering nausea and disorientation. He half-crouched, face twisted into a snarl, arms and wrists cocked, skin and muscle /burning/ with the effort to keep the claws in as his heart jackhammered against his metal-lined ribs. Instantly on the alert, he started scanning the area.

Fuck on a stick. Out in the middle of fucking nowhere in the fucking woods, and fuck him if he didn't look down, half expecting to be naked as the day he'd been born. But he wasn't. Ok, so not a nightmare. Or, well, yes, it was, just not the sleeping kind. Fuck.

And the more he picked up with his senses, the less happy he got. Something was /seriously/ fucked up here. It didn't smell right, sound right or feel right. Double fuck.

Put it all together, and Logan knew /exactly/ where the fuck he was, even if he didn't know who was behind it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He found the assholes that dragged him here, there was gonna be blood on the floor when all was said and done, and it wouldn't be his. He cast another murderous glare around himself, and noticed the little wood box at his feet. He picked it up and examined the contents with a disgusted snort.

Fuckers.

Then he heard someone yell, and he tucked the box under his shirts, tucking them in to hold the thing there so he'd have both hand free.

Pissed as hell and just /itching/ for a fight, he headed for the source of the voice, snorting when he saw the scrawny kid. "You got five seconds, bub, to explain what the /fuck/ is going on here." He snarled.

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emo_underdog
2009-04-24 11:37 pm UTC (link)

When neither Michelle nor Tony answered or popped out to laugh at him, Sid rolled his eyes. "What have we learned today, Sid?" he asked himself. "Your friends are shitheads." It was not a new sentiment, but sometimes he felt the need to remind himself. Sometimes, he wondered why he even bothered with them; they treated him like shit anyway. This was another case in point. But, then, being treated like shit was better than being invisible entirely.

Sid opened the box with the fucked up label and furrowed his brow, his jaw going a little slack as he looked at the contents. "What the fuck...?" he muttered. A bottle of water, a pair of socks? There was also a pack of Tic-tacs, to which he shook his head in bewilderment, as well as a joural-looking thing, and a pack of matches. Oh...actually, the matches might be nice. He took them out and closed the box, shoving it into one of his jacket pockets, plunging his free hand into the other pocket for his fags. ...only they weren't there. "Bollocks...oh come on!" he groaned.

His head snapped up at the sound of another voice and his expression could only be described as that of a deer in headlights. The other man was, well, in a word: huge. To Sid, anyway. And he was angry. Sid had a brief flashback of the Mad Twatter smashing Jal's clarinet to smithereens and telling Sid he'd be next. This guy sounded American, so, at least he was still in New York; that was a small consolation.

Swallowing thickly, Sid shook his head, jaw still slack. "I...what? Look, I haven't got much...just...uh, some matches and Tic-tacs and erm...maybe ten or twelve quid?" he said quickly, holding his hands up defensively.

"I mean..." he paused. Maybe the guy was a copper or something and they just didn't wear uniforms in America. "Right, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep here, if it's against your laws or whatever..." he rambled, taking a step back reflexively. "I just got here yesterday, 'm a bit lost," he admitted. "Although, I really thought I'd passed out in an alley outside Times Square..." he said, his expression morphing from fear to confusion as he scratched the back of his head.

"Oh! Right!" he exclaimed, pulling out the picture of Cassie from his pocket and holding it out to the man. "Have you seen this girl? I've been looking for her." Hey, it was worth a shot, right?

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