apocalypsehowcomm | (mingle) It must be party time

Entry tags:

(mingle) It must be party time

Who: Ren Amamiya, Wanda Maximoff, you!
When: 12th of September
Where: Good Harbor Beach
Summary: Here's the barbecue log! Eating, playing games, having a bonfire and sleep-over on the beach!
Warnings: Alcohol? Ghost stories?

ɪ. ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ

Congratulations, you've made it to the Good Harbor Beach September barbecue! With the weather cooling, but still pleasant enough, it's a pleasure to have a hangout involving ADI's residents and those who live at Bonnie's. There are still so many people who don't know one another, and many to strengthen bonds with, so the hours your dearest Wanda and Ren spend cooking and flipping and seasoning are nothing but rewarding! Seeing people enjoying themselves is great and it's motivating for them to keep doing these encounters every now and then.

On the menu, we have:
- Burgers;
- Steaks with jacked potato sides;
- Ribs;
- Zucchini-and-Pecorino fritters;
- Several different salads, including ovcharska;
- Aubergine kebabs with charred onion salsa;
- Salmon yakitori;
- Takoyaki;
- Cupcakes
- Apples and honey;
- Cherry dumplings;
- Sarmale filled with rice;
- Bundevara (pumpkin pie);

For drinks, there's a selection of alcohol, as well as coffee, water, tea, and a variety of sodas. Take in the nice view, jump on the ocean, sink your toes in the sand and enjoy yourselves. There aren't any usable tables, but there are several blankets on the floor for your perusal.

ɪɪ. ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ

With bellies full, now it's when the real fun begins. There are a few decks of cards being passed around, as well as one of their single tables now organized to a beer-pong competition. Individually, games such as Never Have I Ever, as well as Truth or Dare can be seen, and those who wish to use their skills for entertaining are more than welcome to do so.

A little bonding here, a little drunken chatting there, this is your time to shine!

ɪɪɪ. ᴀ ʙᴏɴꜰɪʀᴇ

With those who have a curfew to worry about in mind, a bonfire is lit, and a few tents are set around the beach (may have to be shared). If anyone's got a nice story, now it's the time to share it, or perhaps if anyone can play an instrument, it's about time to break it out of its case. The night will be lively until the early hours of the morning, and of course, mindful of those who couldn't stay up this late.

The next morning, everyone will be properly thanked for their attendance and tupperwares will be distributed with leftovers for those who'd like to take some food home, the beach will be cleaned impeccably and everyone will go their own way, hopefully with smiles and a new sense of unity and connection from the amazing night they've just experienced.

ɪᴠ. ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴏᴏᴄ ɴᴏᴛᴇ

(Please put in your top-level subject line or prompt line whether it's okay to threadjack! Just to keep things more dynamic, we encourage it!)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He snorts, disgust at the idea coming through, popping the p in "Nope."

Too many people here get excited about the idea of killing, though. There was even a post on the ADI forum, for all to see: I'll Teach You To Kill. As far as Tim's aware, it was still up. As far as Tim's aware, ADI loves the thrill too.

And yet, if Boomerang showed his face in this place, he can't say he wouldn't reach for the nearest

"My father only had opinions on revenge and justice, and he said death brought neither. Preventative measures are a different story but it's looking about the same."

“My father was a death hobbyist. He liked that kind of power,” Malcolm says. “I’ve studied killers for most of my life. The things they say sound so familiar. That’s how it starts.”

Malcolm doesn’t go on the message board much; he hasn’t seen the post.

Serial killer, the Surgeon right? Tim hesitates just long enough to remember Malcolm hadn't given him this information before. Right? The lullaby is wafting through the air again, mingling with the salt of the breeze. Tim hopes it's not brain fog telling him the knowledge is off limits.

The bus hisses to a stop. Tim nods for Malcolm to board.

Not-A-Cop still regularly consulted for an agency that exercises the power to kill for prevention of further harm. And of course it's not the same as killing for ego, for hubris, for fame. But sometimes it all sounds familiar.

"Death hobbyist, huh."

Because he's remembered he's been-- quiet.

"Beats archeologist on the eccentricity scale."

“While archaeology is largely robbery, not a lot of them go to prison.”

Unlike serial murderers.

“I told Kate why I knew what the path to murder looked like but she still thinks she can’t slide down it.”

He's startled and shoots Malcolm a cutting gaze. It's short lived, because the truth doesn't care about the late Jack Drake's hobbies and stories, the riveting tales he would tell his son about the newest acquisition to a private collection.

But damn, dude, be a little less blunt about it.

Tim hums. "Maybe she won't," he says. Not everyone fits into a preconceived pattern, he almost says, but the hypocrisy would be too much. "Think you can handle being wrong about it?"

“I’d love to be wrong about it, but I’m not. The only way it won’t happen is if she stops doing things like that. She’s not going to stop. She believes she can control it,” he explains.

"There's not much to dissuade her," he adds. "Or anyone else."

Not that it's the route he'd like to lean on, but it is the most glaringly obvious.

He settles for a cliche, "Power corrupts."

“You hate to see a good person slide into a spiral that leads to evil,” he remarks. “But it’s not without precedent.” He looks at Tim. “Do people have superpowers or magic where you’re from?”

Doesn't everyone? Tim can answer that with a resounding nope.

Tim nods. He wonders how odd it is to not feel exceptionally homesick. "There's a lot of research put into superpowered humans, especially out of S.T.A.R. Labs," he explains. And damn is it difficult to even attempt an outsider's perspective on this. "The meta genes aren't well understood. Magic is different. It's learned. And there's aliens. And their technology."

And magic hates techno--

Oh. Huh.

There's a moment of recognition. Brief.

Moving on: "It's not secret knowledge or anything like that. You learn to live with it."

"What do you do, where you're from, if someone powered in some way... uses it to hurt or oppress other people?" Malcolm asks.

This is easier to talk about, because both Meredith and Jeff have already gotten an earful.

"There's teams. The Justice League of America. Justice League International. There's a corps of, uh, Green Lanterns. They're sworn to protect the solar systems from, like, the real extraterrestrial threats and everything."

There's the Reach's technology residing in the spine of Jaime Reyes from El Paso, Texas.

There's the Flash, capable of but unwilling to reverse time.

Booster Gold and the time lords, which Tim had directed to hunt a man and bring him back from the stream.

Wonder Woman, the Amazon, who kept barking at him to get out of the damn way when Bruce was... nothing but a bomb, about to be put down. She's maybe the only one Tim still harbors that healthy kind of respect for.

He's frowning.

"There's vigilante justice, too. That's the big one in Gotham City. There's some cooperation with the police otherwise I don't think Wayne Enterprises would have announced the funding of Batman, Inc."

Has he mentioned it's difficult to play this straight? Tim had the gall to look... peeved.

"I'm not touching the legalities of that one with a ten foot pole."

“So superpowered vigilantes are kept in check by… other superpowered vigilantes? That seems like asking for trouble,” he comments.

Tell him about it. Alas. The ego. It must be placated. "And non-powered vigilantes, yeah."

There.

Tim crosses his legs at the ankles. "There's contingencies in place. Most cities make their limits of involvement clear and law enforcement agencies make their calls for to ask for help or not."

Which are promptly ignored.

"We do still have armies, you know."

And Tim Drake-Wayne wouldn't know about Red Star and the stockpile of

"Full government programs like the Suicide Squad. They make use of the worst of them."

Tell 'em how you really feel, Drake.

"...Suicide Squad?" he questions. That doesn't sound like the name of a government program.

Speaking of things Timothy Drake-Wayne wouldn't know. Tim lowers his gaze, presses his tongue to the back of his teeth as he breathes out. "They're criminals," he rationalizes. "Expendable."

Bruce would hate him.

Bruce would hate him even more. But the ugly twist of hate (--hate, the real thing--) is in Tim's throat.

"They serve for an opportunity of reduced sentences. 'Suicide Squad' isn't its real name. --and people really aren't supposed to know about it."

"I take it they aren't pick-pockets and inside traders," Malcolm ventures. "If people aren't supposed to know about them, how do you know about them?"

No.

Tim sighs. His breath feels hot, like all of the inside of him does. "The man who killed my dad... I wanted to know what happened to him."

He hadn't killed Boomerang.

"I stumbled into the information when I visited," he finishes lamely.

"They let murderers take dangerous missions and then they let them go free?" Malcolm clarifies. "What about their victims? What if they kill again?"

Free is an exaggeration.

But not by much.

The bastards are killed. Supposedly. Sometimes. And some come back.

What about the victims.

When did they get into the twisted mind of Amanda Waller?

"I don't know," he says. "You'll have to ask whoever's in charge of that." Tim shakes his head. He needs to be careful with Malcolm. "The point is... the tools for containment aren't hoarded by just one organization."

“I’m not sure whether that’s encouraging or the recipe for pure anarchy,” Malcolm notes.

"I wouldn't describe my world as pure anarchy," he sighs. Does that make another delusion that he'll need to talk through in therapy? Who knows. Who cares? "Life goes on."

“So you wouldn’t describe it as ‘encouraging’, either,” he surmises.

"There's a lot of hope out there."

Insistent. Defensive.

"It's important."

And it's been all but mercilessly stomped out of him. But.

Tim reins in the urge to fidget again. "You need to work to expand that hope, sometimes. Nothing is perfect. And you owe me a cup of tea for putting words in my mouth."

Malcolm blinks at him at the sudden vehemence.

"I... would make you a cup of tea anyway. Can I get you anything else?" he asks by way of apology.

"Sorry."

Automatic.

Tim shakes his head again and keeps his mouth shut. For a good moment. Because a Robin, past or present, is a chatty bastard. Silence usually means disapproval, disappointment. So Tim switches gears. "I just have a question. Jeff made me think of something. It's kind of dumb. And personal."

...a word that should never be tied to Jeff Calhoun.

"About family, not anything too bad."

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