(mingle) It must be party time

[forethinking]

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!)

Comments

[abrightboy]

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

[ployboy]

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.

[abrightboy]

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

[ployboy]

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."

[abrightboy]

"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?"

[ployboy]

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.

[abrightboy]

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

[ployboy]

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."

[abrightboy]

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

[ployboy]

"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."

[abrightboy]

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

[ployboy]

"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."

[abrightboy]

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.

[ployboy]

"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."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm shrugs a shoulder.

“Shoot,” he offers.

[ployboy]

Oh, boy.

It's a well-known fact he would rather take a bullet than talk through... feelings. One of those options isn't viable at the moment.

"I don't know who else to ask. You're the only other guy I know who..." here, he does a see-saw motion with a hand. Take the label with a grain of salt. Tim puts on that crisp, clear Bristol air. "Who understands the Upper Crust stuff."

[abrightboy]

“You can ask me anything,” Malcolm makes clear. “What is it?”

[ployboy]

Well don't pressure him, jesus. Tim stares at Malcolm for a moment, and he calculates the pain in the butt it would be to take back his own lead-in.

He breathes out.

Okay.

Goodbye, crisp, clear Bristol airs.

"It's--"

Something he has never asked anyone. Who could he have asked? Bruce? That man had been raised by Thomas and Martha Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth. Bruce Wayne was always made different.

So now that Tim has the opportunity and resolve to do what he's never before done, he's drawing a blank. He doesn't know how to put it to words. He doesn't even know what It is. Some entitlement to other people's lives that he's always--

"Do you know your mom's favorite song?"

Something like that. It's embarrassing. Tim tries not to shy or color because of it.

[abrightboy]

“I know what it used to be,” he supplies. “She loved ‘At Last’ by Etta James. I’m pretty sure it was my parents’ wedding song. But she stopped listening to it when my father was arrested. I don’t really remember her ever listening to music after that. Why?” he asks curiously.

[ployboy]

Curiosity killed the cat.

Tim puts on a brave face and refuses to wilt.

He doesn't pin the song but he can pull up enough unnecessary trivia to land on... a genre of music that isn't synonymous with Wagner. Valkyries. He nods absentmindedly.

The jerk even knows his parents' wedding song.

"Would she leave out, like, CDs or something?"

Maybe that's how a young Malcolm found a new love for sleuthing.

[abrightboy]

“No, nothing was ever laying around. Her staff has always been very fastidious in keeping things tidy.” He looks over. “Why?”

[ployboy]

Maybe he can dodge Malcolm's 'why' a third time.

But the man has put forth so much effort into understanding Tim, that Tim can't not feel like a gigantic ass simply for existing in his vicinity.

No one in their damn apartment is 'healthy'.

Tim bites back a groan, his eyes flitting upwards for a microsecond. And he steels himself and says

"---"

Jesus, he hates talking about things.

"It just feels..."

He'd rather take a bullet than talk through feelings. But nobody is looking like they're about to start shooting. Damn.

"Weird? Jeff asked me about my parents. I didn't know what to say. They loved me. And Bruce is... great. But Jeff had stories about his, and he even knew his mom's favorite artist and it was... I don't know. I hoped it was an 'Us' thing."

A blue blood thing. Sans Bruce Wayne because yadda yadda yadda anyway--

"I didn't mean to, like. Imply anything."

[abrightboy]

“I think it is, to a degree,” Malcolm tells him. “I… had nannies and housekeepers. My experience with my mother, until very recently, has been extremely… curated. I don’t know how it would have gone if we stayed… a family.”

[ployboy]

There. That's a lot more relatable. Tim feels like he's finally understanding a familiar language, it's so silly.

He doesn't know if he should keep poking. Of course he keeps poking. "If your father hadn't been arrested, you mean?"

[abrightboy]

“Yeah,” Malcolm replies. “He’s… a malignant narcissist, amongst all his other sins. He wanted to be held in high esteem. He wanted people to be jealous of him. He found the perfect wife and was the perfect husband and they had the perfect kids and he was the perfect dad.”

He glances at Tim.

“And he was. Until he wasn’t. After his arrest, my mother fell into substance abuse and self loathing. She was never the same.”