aberrare (aberrare) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-02-24 00:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | castor vance, ennis taggart |
we all needed this in our life
WHO: Ennis Taggart and Castor Vance
WHAT: A series of unfortunate events, vignettes
WHEN: Over the past few years
WHERE: B52 mostly, hospital visit
RATING: Swearing and reference to the kidnapping plot later.
'70 Tag had never been on the B52 before, so he was kind of lost, and having his hands full didn't help at all. He was looking at his most ridiculous because he had several balloons hanging from his wrist, with 'congratulations' and 'you go girl!' written on them, a big box where a chocolate cake rested inside, and what appeared to be a cape hanging off his shoulders. The cape was actually a little blanket he had made with Kirby's face on it and #1 Gunner written. She was changing ships. It was a big deal! There was also a stuffed bear on top of the box that didn't seem to want to stay there, so he had to lean with it when he moved. If he had to stop to get it, he'd have to put everything down. The pilot navigated the space as best as he could, but he legitimately had no idea which direction to be pointed in. Each place was a little different. "Son of a bi----" he couldn't quite reach his communication device, and when he tried to reach for it, the bear dropped to the ground. "Why!" Tag thought he heard someone coming so he took a chance. "Kirby?" he asked hopefully. Unless Kirby could suddenly sprout a whole foot in height, gain heavy ink and solid brick muscle overnight, he had the wrong B52er. Still a gunner if there was any grasping to be done, but one who had tucked that title away in the interest of taking up a different mantle: captain. Long-legged strides brought the B52's captain of barely a year closer down the corridor, his expression passive save for that flicker of hostile distrust in his eyes. "Copeland isn't the only one who works on this ship," he offered, deadpan. Tag felt like instead of the angel he was hoping for, he got a devil instead. It was probably wrong to jump to such a conclusion since the guy just looked scary, it didn't mean he was. But Tag grew up around big guys with tattoos who liked guns, and he spent half his time hiding from them. Dark eyes widened and he pressed his back against the wall, looking very much like a deer waiting to bolt. But if he bolted he would drop the cake, and that was Kirby's congratulations cake. Tag's fingers tightened over the box possessively. "I know, I mean, the girl can't fly, and you need to fly, to work a ship by yourself," Tag said quickly, and laughed at nothing in particular outside of his nerves. He knew exactly who this dude was even if he'd never met him. "I would know, I fly. Not with wings." This is what Tag did when he was nervous. He just talked and talked. "It'd be kind of cool to have wings though, right? Walking through doors would be hard. Probably not for you, you'd be like my black wings knock down doors and I'm ready for the apocalypse. I don't know why I'm thinking black, I'm just getting something of a bat motif." He was trying to figure out whether he should just come back for the bear later at this point. For the love of God stop talking. "...please don't hold Kirby accountable for me saying you would have bat wings…." The embarrassing spectacle of foot in mouth syndrome was almost stunning. Almost. Castor couldn't pinpoint when he'd stopped walking — or, more importantly, why — but with his boot a mere two feet from the teddy bear abandoned on the ship floor, he'd have been liable to stomp on its furry stomach without noticing. Less than a minute into this encounter, and he knew this kid was going to give him a headache. "I'll resist the temptation somehow," he offered eventually, his gaze finally settling on the ridiculous assortment bundled in Tag's arms. Now Tag was leaning toward him being a robot more than a bat. "Thank you. Her taste in friends might be iffy, but she's like, the absolute best. You won't regret having her on your ship. She bakes! Do you like baked goods? I mean who doesn't, right." Why is he still talking. Why. Tag wished so often that he knew when to shut his mouth, and yet that instinct of spilling out everything to the ears of other was compulsive. "Could you, ummm…." He tried to gesture toward the teddy bear and almost dropped everything, but managed to keep a grip on it in the end. He still was pressed against the nearby wall, like maybe if he made himself a part of the wall, the robot wouldn't bother with him too much. He really wanted to run but the bear was sitting there. "Put it on top of the box? Then I'll be poof, gone." The tall robot peered down at him, unimpressed, before lowering into a crouch. His fingers circled (strangled) the stuffed bear as he drew back up to full height. He didn't even spare it a glance before he spoke. "Your mouth might be a better place for it." But the gesture wasn't followed through with, the bear deposited without a care atop the box with a look that said You can go now. Tag laughed nervously, because he felt like that was almost a threat, and he was definitely not going to be fast enough to run if it was. "I don't think it would fit. I have a big one. I've fit my fist in there comfortably. Seriously I -- will not show you some time. Because that's gross." The bear helpfully put there, he now managed to hurriedly back away and then scoot down the hallway to go hide with Kirby. And tell her that her new Captain was fucking terrifying. Tag had a tendency to be dramatic and make snap judgments of people, and to let his terror guide him. So when he bounced onto the B52, both of them now comfortable in her new space, he tried to awkwardly smile at Castor as they passed each other. Instead he stopped in his tracks. "Hi I'm Tag, I didn't mention before, you'd think with how much I talk I would remember to say the important things, but nope." He was willfully being cheerful at this point, telling himself not to flee. Just because the guy was tattooed didn't make him evil. Seriously. Maybe he was cuddly on the inside. "So like, youngest captain and whatever? That's cool." See. Tag was totally cool. Cool cool cool. The look offered certainly wouldn't convince anyone of the potential of cuddly insides; it wasn't outright hostility, either. Not that it was by any measure welcoming as the blonde eyed him from where he'd slowed to the sort of stop that came of someone looking to be somewhere else more important. That much, at least, was believable. He raked his gaze over the younger man. "I know your name, Taggart," he pointed out matter-of-factly, opting against the nickname. "You do?" Tag replied with honest astonishment, followed up pretty quickly with the certainty that it wasn't a good thing. People rarely knew his name for good reasons. "At least you're not calling me Ennis, because that is the worst. I think I was named it because my dad knew he wanted to hate me from birth." Airing family dirty laundry like that was usually something other people avoided, but Tag didn't have much of a filter, so it spilled out. Secrets, not really a thing with him. His personal trauma was usually stretched out in front of others like a mini-train wreck. "Your name is like killer though," Tag continued like he wasn't someone who needed air. "Like the star, you know it's like the second brightest star in the sky?" He liked the sky. He was a pilot. These things mattered to him. "Or like the Greek guy. Do you have a twin brother? Because Pollux would be on the nose. Zeus knocked their mother up as a swan, it's so weird how many times he impregnates women in animal bodies, like how does that even work." Yup, he was basically going to talk until no one was there anymore or he was skittered off so. One of these days, Castor was going to have to consider putting an actual gag in this kid's mouth. Preferably a permanent one. He only barely resisted reaching up to smooth what would inevitably be a headache away from his temples. Just barely. Of course he knew his own name's meaning — the French as well — because he'd given the alias to himself. "It's mythology, Taggart. They were stories, not fact." Jesus, was he actually having this conversation? "Yeah but the Greeks thought it was legit, so why exactly were they coming up with this swan business?" Tag knew the look on Castor's face. He knew it so well it might as well be his own face. He was well aware of how annoying he was, and he wished that meant he actually learned when to shut up, but it never happened. At least he was reasonably sure Castor wasn't going to toss him out a window or lock him into a box like his brothers used to do. Ah, fun family times. "I know two other things that remind me of your name, but uh, I think … I should … not press my luck." See, he could kind of be self-preservational. He was going to be hugging the wall at some point to keep his physical distance from Castor, 'casually' inching toward Kirby's room. "I really like your scary tattoos." A pair of brows raised, just slightly. "What was that about not pressing your luck, Taggart?" Tag shrugged. "I've never been lucky to start with, Captain!" And then he high tailed it to Kirby's room. The next time Tag came to the B52 to see Kirby and he saw Castor's face when he started in that direction, he simply turned around on his heel and right back out the door. Nope. It wasn't that important. The odds of two people bumping into each other so often was absurd when there were so many other potential crew members. "Coincidence" didn't cut it anymore — it was outright karma. Whatever he'd done to incur the appearance of Castor not just once a visit, but occasionally twice, was to be determined. But it wouldn't be the last time he'd see Kirby's captain, not by a long shot. Tag had a plan when it came to the B52. Without fail every time he visited, he ended up arriving at the exact time the Captain was stalking through the damn halls like he was expecting his next meal. If Tag was a mouse and Castor was a bloodthirsty cat. He was trying to be casual watching the ship to see if the man would leave. Kirby was waiting for him, but he needed to time this right. He was texting her when he looked up too late, and saw what he thought for sure was the tall tattooed monster walking away from the ship. "Yesssss," he hissed to himself and rushed toward it. He was walking a little more confidently this time, too confidently, since he ended up faced with the very familiar back once he got on there. He's a wizard holy shit. Tag's sneakers squeaked as he tried to turn and scramble off, and instead he tripped into the wall with a bang that sounded louder than it actually felt, immediately drawing attention. Because the world hated him. He shot back to his feet as if nothing happened, eyeing the exit and then Castor. His communicator buzzed loudly since Kirby was clearly getting impatient. Upon his favourite obstacle turning on a heel, there was a look of passing confusion, the What are you doing knitted there for a moment before it was gone. Nestled in one arm was a throw blanket that would've been visible if not for broad shoulders. It seemed out of place, quite frankly, but there was, as always, a purpose to it. "Taggart," he opened with, the name echoing against the corridor walls. "Before you trip off the ship, want to come over here for a second?" Invitation or order — or ruse to then subsequently devour him whole — the pilot could decide. No I don't. Tag thought, but he knew that tone. It didn't sound like an invitation, but either way he was going to end up there. Now he was attempting to play it cool, just wandering over with his back straight, and his look still a little squirrely. "...sup?" Trying. So. Hard. Not. To. Talk. More. Which was an impressive feat once it was accomplished, though the blonde did pause, as if expecting the blather to fall out of his mouth in a stream. When it didn't come, he adjust himself in place, half-facing. "Going to see Copeland?" Because why else would he be here? "Yeah, I bet when you got her on the ship, you didn't think you'd get a whole squad with her, huh? Surprise. You adopted a small village." Tag knew that he was around more than anyone else, but it wasn't really something he liked to talk about. Normally people ended up squinting at him like they wanted to ask something, but he felt certain that Castor didn't care about any of that, so it was safe. He was very hesitant as he approached the blonde, dark eyes wary. "So?" There was no wariness in the taller of the two — weariness, sure — as he angled himself the rest of the way around, the blanket in arms much more visible now. "So," parroted, with a hint of exasperation, "you can do us both a favor and bring this over to her, if you're seeing her anyway." Without waiting for a reply, the throw was pressed against the pilot's chest. Take it. Tag took the throw, looking up at Castor who seriously had the appearance of someone a foot taller. Five inches, actually, he obsessively checked one day, in case he needed to know, but still. "Well you know if I do you a favor, it means you owe me." He held the serious look for about three seconds before grinning. His laughter was nervous. "Kidding. Don't kill me. The Sling would miss me. I'm super important." He saluted and his sneakers squeaked again when he rushed to run away. '71, before Pluto It was a rainy day, going between drizzly and full out downpour, and Tag managed to get stuck out in Ganymede running errands. Every time he tried to move inside he was swiftly told to stop dripping on everything, and he scooted out. He was almost certainly going to be sick and whiny for the next month at this rate, but he had to tell Kirby about what happened with the Sling. This was required information. He needed to yell and wave his hands. Expression was valuable in this instance. She hopefully would have a towel for him. So he was soggy to say the least when he turned a corner and walked right into Castor, who could easily have been mistaken for a brick wall if no one had paid attention. He should've been on the look out considering their track record, but he hadn't been thinking. Whoops. "Why!" Why always Castor? He flailed a little and stumbled backwards. But rather than allowing that fall to continue toward the floor, the brick wall reached out, snagging the front of the kid's hoodie to anchor him into place. Brief surprise flashed in Castor's face, though not at the exclamation — which, naturally, was silently reciprocated — he hadn't expected the sweater to be damp, taking a moment to assess the whole state of the pilot. Nearly sopping wet, not unlike a dog left out in the rain. He usually wasn't one for intentional witticisms. Today was an exception. "Little wet outside?" Tag was amazed at how strong Castor was; he looked like it, but the way he snagged his hoodie was impressive. He probably couldn't have jerked away with all his strength if he wanted to, the guy might be able to body press him. "Ha, um, sorry. Yes." His dark hair was plastered to his head and he sheepishly rubbed a hand over his face, trying to dry it off. But since he was wet all over, it wasn't going to help. "Ummmm, so good news, the Sling has a long mission to Pluto, so you won't be seeing me for a long while. Aren't you excited?" "Thrilled," was Castor's automatic, monotonous answer. He took a moment to tug, righting the kid. Strange how he always saw him as such; they couldn't have been more than a couple years apart, but emotional maturity was everything. Soon, the frown and confusion came. His fist had yet to unfurl from the sweater. "Who the hell has missions on Pluto?" Tag chuckled. Or he gulped and chuckled at the same time. But the question had his eyebrows furrowing. "...the Sling?" He hadn't really heard of anyone going to Pluto before, but he assumed it was just something that went over his head. Castor's confusion added to his own, and he tilted his head at the other man. The grip on his sweater didn't bug him. Yet. "I can't tell you. Because of reasons. Secret reasons." He nodded slowly and then winced. "Yeah I have no idea. We got the short end of the straw? But lemme tell you, still loads better than the Appletini." Slowly, that hand released him. Almost sheepishly, like Castor hadn't realized he'd been holding on, even if it didn't show in his face. "That doesn't mean much," he pointed out, opting out of slamming the kid's former crew in front of him. Not that it mattered. Everyone knew the Appletini was a piece of shit except the Appletini — but not Tag, apparently. He was eyed again, without that sharp edge. "Though you might want to think about drying off before you go somewhere so far away from the sun." And stop dripping on the ship. Tag laughed. "I know, right?" He hated the Appletini. It might've been his ship, and he did the best for it, but he'd been begging to get off from the day he got on. It was the reality he faced. Now he was on the Sling, and he could live with a visit to Pluto and the weird rumors about it. "Sorry about the wetness. At least I didn't try to hug you!" He rubbed the back of his neck now that he was released. "I don't know why I said that, I promise I never would. Oh my god. Okay bye. Fun to have yet another incredibly unnecessary interlude!" He dragged himself off so he could complain to Kirby. About Pluto, and probably this too. Because he had the worst luck. '71 - Right after kidnappings She was safe. They were safe. Tag didn't think much as soon as he saw that message, and he was rushing to get to the med level as soon as possible. He almost ran into a few people and scrambled around, and his foot tapped nervously in the elevator. He hadn't slept since his friends were taken. Food had no appeal. He was never someone who felt very useful, kind of the opposite, but in a situation like this it was even worse. He couldn't tell himself that if he'd been there he could have saved them, because that was just not true. Maybe they would've taken him instead though. Maybe. He desperately asked everyone possible for her name until he got an answer, and he ran there. There was a doctor inside and the door was closed, so Tag stared at the door. He willed it to stop existing so there was nothing standing between them, but then what was he going to say? What could he offer? He didn't save her. His shoulders slumped and only then did he actually pay attention to his surroundings and saw Castor hovering near by. He had no idea how long the Captain was standing there (too long), or how long Tag had been staring off into space. For once, he didn't flinch or run the other way. "How is she?" he asked, muted. Quiet. That silent numbness was present, too, in the line of Castor's shoulders rather than his face, the concern concealed, but exhaustion slipping through the cracks. He was tired; he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so tired. Hector's support had been the glue to keep him from disassembling for all to see, though he could feel the threads beginning to unravel again, piece by piece. He crossed his arms, settling his shoulder into the closest wall. Took in a steep breath. "I don't know." And it was true. "No one's been allowed in." If Castor was unraveling, Tag would be the last person to notice. The man could be practically unhinged and transparent, and the pilot would still see him as … the man eating lion. And that was exactly who he would want to be looking out for Kirby, since he wasn't that person. He was more like a veggie eating Corgi puppy in comparison. He looked at Castor, intimidating and relentless, and he was thankful for it. If only it'd been enough. Tag collapsed onto a chair nearby, running his hands over his face and rubbing his eyes until he saw sparks. "I'm always with her, like … always. And one time I'm not." This is my fault. "What are you supposed to say to people after this?" Maybe it was the grief and anxiety making him capable of speaking to Castor more frankly, or maybe he was just that desperate for guidance. From his place against the wall, the Killjoy didn't move. It was fortunate that he didn't — the support of the wall was necessary. "Your guess is as good as mine," he quietly allowed, his gaze flickering to the series of doors. His brother, Kirby, Pendleton. One of those doors might have belonged to Star, if his brother hadn't intervened. Unconsciously, he tucked his arms in tighter. "I guess that's the first thing we have in common," Tag said with the shadow of a smile. "We don't know how to fix this." There was no fix. All they could do was try and make the consequences survivable for everyone involved. For a young man who was full of energy and always moving, always talking, his silence was acute. He pulled his knees up on the chair to his chest, and looked back at Castor. "You're going to get them, aren't you?" If anyone could, it would be Castor. That was a thought he'd found within himself. I'm going to find them; I'm going to rip out their throats. That acute and blinding hot realization had caught Castor off-guard, and unaware of how to process that fury, he'd used Hector to ground him to reality. It had been necessary; it had been what kept him from booting chairs across the hallway. Even so. "They'll see me coming from a mile away," he promised, meaning it, "and I'll still make it hurt." Tag nodded slowly. Castor was unsettling for him, but he knew in his heart that the Captain would never hurt him. He was an annoyance, not an enemy. Now they had specific enemies, and they would get the bat winged man eating lion on them. "Good," he said firmly, full of vehemence. Someone would get them. A long silence stretched between them, before Tag just could not help himself. "So like, what do those tattoos even mean, are they a code or sign or something?" |