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25 September 2006 @ 07:16 pm
It was getting warm, which was fantastic, considering Maureen barely had a place to live these days, and could spend daylight hours (when she wasn't working) wandering around central park composing, picking up and nursing a plate of fries or a milkshake till the wee hours with Angel or whoever showed at the Life Cafe. It was a smaller existence these days than she'd known, looking for a performance space.

At the moment, she was pacing the upper levels of Belvedere Castle in the park, wondering if a performace here could make an impact or could be arranged without clearing it with park services or the policne. She lit a cigarette and walked the paces of a new piece she was working up against aerosol spray cans (trite, she could feel in her bones, but global warming was scaring the hell out of her these days, and the ozone layer wasn't going to repair itself) and hummed, pretty lost in thought, until she bumped headfirst into someone standing nearby. She had been alone a moment ago, and hadn't bothered to watch where she was going.

"Sorry!" Her smile was probably a better tool to make amends, anyway, so she did that too.




[Wondering if this game gets to go forward, which I think it really can, so everybody tag in, everybody have good time. Not gathering style, but it's generic enough that even people who don't know Maureen could be there. She'll talk to anything. Yar, I just said anything.]
 
 
30 April 1996 @ 08:30 pm
April 30th 1996
8:30 pm
Corner of 6th St and Avenue A


Everybody was constantly telling Seth on the plane ride over all the places he has to see. Oh the Empire State this, or the Chrysler that, the World Trade something-or-others. When he left Newport Beach, California he didn't imagine New York like most people did. Seth saw New York in a place like CBGB. And that is exactly where WildStorm Comics was putting him. Larry Burnstein decided even against Seth Caffine Meltdown that Atomic County had potential to be something amazing. Seth was set to be the next Stan Lee if... if he can actually live up to the hype.

Seth stood one foot on the corner of Avenue A and 6th Street and the other foot lingering in the Cab. He had in one hand a piece of paper with his address on it... which had incidently been in the same pocket he spilt his water on during the flight, so, that meant it was damn near useless. The letters and numbers and... it all could have been Egyptian for all he knew. In his other hand he held a single bag with his clothes and a toothbrush. The movers would be at his loft sometime tomorrow with his furniture. But, he couldn't even find his loft.

"Hey, asshole, you gonna move your shit or what man?" The driver barked at him in an accent that was very much a blur of Italian, Indian, and Jewish. He was a mutt of a man.

"I'm... uh, yeah, ok, sorry man." Seth said stepping out fully and without any hesitation Mutt Man Cabbie sped off in a blaze of minority. "Oh, god..." Seth felt around him. "My wallet!!! Oh god, Mutt Man!!! Goddamn Cabbie!!!" Seth chased after him a few steps but admitting he couldn't catch a speeding car, he stopped and suddenly felt fearful.

"Oh man... this is it... no turning back."
 
 
29 August 2006 @ 12:49 pm
April 29, 1996
8:30 pm
The Life Cafe


Angel saunters into the Life Cafe looking like the cat that's gotten into the cream. She's having a good day--feeling good, looking good, performing even better--and with cash in her pocket, she figures it's about time for a little decadence.

"Taking a table in the back, Sergio!" she calls, passing right by the host's booth. Sergio makes some noise about waiting, but she pulls a bill out of her pocket and waves it at him over her shoulder. Angel settles into a chair at an empty table and orders a green tea and some french fries from one of the newer waiters.

He brings her tea back in short order, and by then Angel's got the drumsticks out and is tapping a syncopated and uncomplicated rhythm on the edge of the table. The waiter frowns and tries to ask her to stop, but she ignores him. Collins said he might be able to meet her here later, and she's keeping her fingers crossed that she'll see him before midnight.

For now, she's keeping an eye out for fabulous people. When the waiter comes back with her french fries, she, to his great and obvious relief, puts her drumsticks away again. She sticks her tongue out at his back and begins picking out the longest fry.

[[anyone and everyone--let's get this place a-hoppin'!]]
 
 
23 August 2006 @ 04:04 pm
Sam and Mark meet more offically.

Sam feels awkward after making some discoveries, but finds that he generally likes Mark.

Dated: April 15
 
 
Current Location: the loft
 
 
23 August 2006 @ 03:39 pm
April 23, 1996
3:23 pm


Sam figured it was probably about time to write home or something, just to let Mom know that he was all right and not dying. He really owed Mark for that fuckin' Thera Flu. The cough was gone and he didn't hurt anymore and he could fuckin' walk without being dizzy every five feet. Fuck. It was fuckin relieving.

So he scribbled out a few words on a sheet of notebook paper, stuffed it into an envelope and jogged over to the local post office to get some stamps.

Big Mistake.

He made it into the foyer and caught something out of the corner of his eye. Large black letters, all caps spelled out MISSING and there was his picture. He ripped it off the wall, turned around, and went right back out of the old building. Sam purposefully took the long way home in case anyone was following him. There wasn't, of course, but years with Josh had made him careful in that regard.

Briefly, he considered going back to the loft, but he didn't want to implicate Mark and Roger in anything. Besides, if there was someone following him, he didn't want to lead them right back there. Instead he found his feet taking him to the Life Cafe (that place everyone seemed to either be talking about or going to). He ordered a soda, picked a table near the back and sat down to stare at the flyer.

His first thought was on the order of how the fuck they got to New York in the first place. But that was answered quickly enough. He'd been an idiot when he used Peter's credit card, btu fuck...what other choice did he have? The phone number on the bottom was a 1-800 number so Sam wasn't sure who was responsible for it. Peter sure as fuck wouldn't give a damn, but he'd do anything for Sam's Mom so it might be that. But then again, it might just be Josh or the Cops or any number of people.

"Fuck," he said to himself. What choice did he have though? None. None at fucking all. His Mountain Dew came and Sam completely ignored it for the time being.
 
 
Current Location: life cafe
 
 
 
16 August 2006 @ 10:07 pm
16 April 1996
5:11 p.m.


The weather was gorgeous and St. Mark's Place was packed with the ususal fare of vendors - some legit, most not. Mimi walked around, idly stopping at a few tables. Occasionally her hands would reach out to touch a coat or purse or watch, but she didn't really see them. She was biding her time until Caleb would reveal himself. It never took long; he had a few spots he worked every day, and Mimi was enough of a regular customer to have his haunting grounds and schedule memorized.

As she ran a finger over a funky paisley patchwork blouse, someone jostled her from behind. Turning her head carefully, she spied the familiar retreating back of The Man. Caleb.

"T'ree dolla', honey," offered the kindly hispanic woman with the weather-worn face from behind the table.

"No– no me gusta," Mimi said faintly, waving the woman off before quickly falling into step behind Caleb. "Got any blow?"

"I got an eight-ball for you, chica," Caleb replied, casually looking back over his shoulder at her.

"Gracias," Mimi breathed, pressing some cash she'd dug out of her cleavage into his hand. He transferred a baggie to her palm, and she stuffed it in a pocket, then crammed her hands in both pockets as she walked away.

Looking left and then right, she ducked into an alley. It was empty, and she kicked over a metal garbage can, then flipped it upside down. Inside a pocket was a small, round compact, and Mimi quickly set to work. The blow went on the mirror, and she produced a card (a long-expired Discovery) to cut it. Once the powder was fine, she rolled up a dollar (one she'd earned earlier that day for shaking her ass at a businessman in a cheap suit with a bad comb-over), and snorted up the lines. Wiping at her nose with the back of her hand, Mimi inhaled deeply and shoved her equipment in her pockets.

It was time to head home, and she'd have a nice high in about ten minutes to help her along.
 
 
Current Location: St. Mark's Place
Current Mood: highhigh
 
 
16 August 2006 @ 04:02 am
Roger talks to Mark about Sam. Par for the course, the conversation doesn't go well. Rated PG13 for language.
 
 
Current Mood: annoyedannoyed
 
 
14 April 1996
10:22 pm


One month. Sam had been in New York for exactly that though you couldn't tell it by looking at him. Looking at him, it seemed as if he had been living on the streets for years. It wasn't as cold as it had been in March and after this long, well Sam was pretty much numb to it. He could barely remember the chaotic events that had gotten him here in the first place. Corey had a 'friend' out here who would help keep him on the down low until he hit his eighteenth birthday, but not only was that still months away, the 'friend' had also bailed on Sam.

What was worse was that he seemed to fuckin attract Dealers Businessmen out of the woodwork. It was like Josh had a fuckin' network here too. Or they just had some sort of radar for druggie little bitches who don't mind sucking cock or worse in exchange for something to make it comfortably numb for awhile.

Sam coughed and leaned against a brick wall. He didn't know or care to whom or what it belonged to. He was too focused on the sound his lungs were making and the green mess he'd hacked up into his hand. Better green than red, Sam thought, and better either of those than black. Fuck, he was too cold and sick to smoke even. That was the worst part. He slid down the brick wall and hit his head lightly against the stone as he looked up and tried to remember what stars were like. Fuck, he could feel his joints and he wasn't even moving. He could feel his eyelids wanting to close, wanting him to just sleep here. It wasn't safe here. Someone would probably steal the rest of his stuff, unimpressive as it was. Maybe...maybe if he just closed his eyes for a little bit...

[ooc: locked to roger please]
 
 
Current Location: outside the loft
Current Mood: soresore
 
 
04 August 2006 @ 10:22 am
04 April 1996
Central Park

Mark walked through the park with camera in hand, just watching people. He'd never thought people-watching would become his job, but here it was-- his real job, he meant, the one that actually meant something to him. Buzzline was a way to pay the bills, but it wasn't his. He wished he could pretend that the guy who rode into corporate America territory every other day was someone else; he wished he could detach his brain and forget he'd sold out.

But it wasn't like he could forget it even when he wasn't there; being a sellout stuck, as Roger was so fond of reminding him. He stopped to film a haphazardly dressed woman feeding a baby from a bottle with a faded Dumbo logo on it. She gave him a Look-- What the fuck are you doing? Get out of my face.-- and so he did. Moving on, he ran his free hand through his hair, annoyed that it got to him so bad when Roger got pissed about his job. Without it he'd still be considering a cup of soup at the Life a luxury. A little gratitude wouldn't hurt every now and then, surely... but it was Roger, and expecting gratitude from him was like expecting it to start raining Skittles; you had to be really, really naive to think it was gonna happen.

A homeless guy sat cheerfully munching half a quarter pounder with cheese; judging by the bag beside him, it had only been in the trash a few hours. "Morning," he called with a wave to Mark, who nervously smiled back. He wasn't used to people actually talking to him-- that was the whole point of being behind the camera. Faceless, nameless, he was safe to observe with impunity. And most New Yorkers were only too happy to oblige. That was what he loved about this city; he only had to get close when he wanted to.

He moved on, crossing a little foot bridge. The camera rolled as he walked, held down by his waist, and in his head he made a joke about shooting straight from the hip, and smiled to himself. It was funny, he thought, and it struck him as a new realization; it was really a paradox, that his work with this, the underside of life in New York, made it easier for him to go sell his soul by the pound at Buzzline. Because when you came down to it, it was a question of absolutes. Roger would rather be dead than a corporate whore; Mark, on the other hand, would rather be dead than let any of his friends start picking Big Macs out of trash cans. It was all a question of what you were willing to give up.
 
 
Current Location: Central Park
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
 
 
01 August 2006 @ 04:32 pm
01 April 1996
8:11 p.m.


Mimi was getting impatient. Here she was in the middle of the Life Cafe, feet all propped up on the table, various bits of accessories (hat, some flimsy leopard print scarf with belled tassels on the end, a 'Swatch' she'd bought from Lazy-Eyed Loni down at St. Marks for a buck, a wide jelly bracelet, and a homemade 'I bagged the Well Hungarian' pin) on chairs, popping a squat until her friends brought their asses in for themselves.

Service was slower than usual, and she wondered if it's because she isn't showing enough tit.

A mischievous smirk twisting her lips, she flicked open a few buttons on her blouse and arranged herself in an enticing pose. "Camarero por favor," she called, waving the server over.

"Just a second," the guy returned, sounding more put out than he should be; there were hardly any patrons! Granted, the girl doing performance art near the front was kind of bad, but that wasn't any reason for the guy to be snippy. Besides, he was getting a free show from Mimi as well. She was a bit perplexed; usually men did anything for a flash of breasts. Unless he was more of a man's man. Maybe that was it.

"One...and done." Standing, Mimi waved again, then made a production of skipping over to the service door. Sticking her head inside, she called, "Hey, Kathy, heuvos merida, a coffee, and a swift kick in the ass for Pokey Dumbwaiter. Make that a double!"

From somewhere behind, she heard the waiter grumble about 'Regulars', which makes Mimi laugh. "Yeah, 'regulars'. Don't you know by now I'm a Now girl?" Moving in front of him, Mimi snapped her fingers in quick secession. "Now, now, now."

"Yeah, yeah. Sit down. I'm getting your freaking coffee."

Triumphant, Mimi plopped down in her seat and lounged like a queen.

"Gracias," she said sweetly as the waiter pressed the mug into her hand.

"Right," he muttered, puttering off to check on another table.
 
 
Current Location: life cafe
Current Mood: amusedamused
Current Music: bad performance art
 
 
 
01 August 2006 @ 12:47 pm
01 April 1996
10am

Mark woke up in the blink of an eye, one second asleep, the next awake. He blinked a few times, then turned on his side with a sleepy sigh, reaching for his glasses as he got to his feet. It wasn’t cold enough anymore that he needed to wear socks to bed or anything, but the floor was cool under his feet. Outside, the usual cacophony of cars, voices and the sounds of the city leaked in through the window, and Mark looked down on it for a moment with a little smile before going for the door.

He should have remembered, of course. Though to be fair, even if he had, there wouldn’t have been any stopping the avalanche of packing peanuts that buried him as he tugged open his bedroom door. They’d been carefully poured into the space left after the door had been saran-wrapped, and being an old building there was a pretty big space. There must have been an entire trash bag’s worth of peanuts in there.... and they were now all over his bedroom floor.

Once he’d stopped sputtering and spit out the peanut that had made its way into his mouth, he straightened his glasses with irate precision and tore through the saran wrap with a sigh. “I hate you,” he called out to the apartment at large; they had to be here somewhere, even if they were hiding. At least they had coffee this week, Mark thought as he rinsed out the pot to make a fresh one. And then for posterity, just because he could, he called out again, “I hate you both, a lot.”

[posting order will be mark-collins-roger.]
 
 
Current Location: the loft
Current Mood: awake
 
 
this is just an example of the minimum level of thoroughness we're looking for in a pan-fandom/OC application. each of these will be weighed carefully, and we will not be accepting any of them until after all the main canon characters are cast.

behind the cut..Collapse )
 
 
21 March 2006 @ 10:20 am
to days of inspiration...