Terrence Ephemera / Sharkface (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
requiemshark) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hadriel_logs2018-02-28 09:20 pm
requiemshark) wrote in hadriel_logs2018-02-28 09:20 pm
Entry tags:
Do you see it clearer Or are you deceived
Who: Tucker and Ephemera.
What: Ephemera wants his helmet back.
Where: Blue Team house.
When: Feb 28th.
Warnings: Swearing, violence, bad history. Possible mentions of war crimes.
Once, not so long ago, Ephemera would have solved this with his fists. Grabbed the fucker by the hair or the back of the neck if he didn't have hair, and then just throw him against the wall. Bash his skull into something solid until the problem stopped breathing. He'd done it a few times on the Tartarus, back when people saw his face and thought it meant opportunity. The guards stopped giving him cellmates, after a while. But that had been part of the plan, too. He'd gotten a reputation early and maintained it as needed. And he'd waited.
For however long it took, he'd sworn to wait. And track down every last one of those fuckers who murdered his family. He'd promised the captain, and even if he hadn't, Ephemera knows he owes CT. It's the sort of debt that can't be measured and can't be forgotten even after dying. For CT, for Chica and the twins, Barrows and Crow, even that bastard Rodriguez. All of them. His brothers and sisters. Freelancer might have buried all their ugly secrets, but he remembered. Sharkface remembered.
And for a long time, that had kept him going. The knowledge that he'd avenge them. No matter how long it took. He'd wait.
Because when he was finally standing next to them, in hell or the afterlife or whatever came next, he would have kept his word.
It's different now. He's trying to be a whole person.
It doesn't always work.
But he promised to try. To be better. Promised Drake and the doc and Lup. All of them are here and none of them are going to die, he'll make sure of it. They matter too much.
That means he has to settle it.
It's not hard to figure out which Sim trooper has his helmet, or where he's staying. It's a small place. He and Washington have an understanding, most days.
So Ephemera shows up a day later in civilian clothes, jeans and a sweatshirt, both of them paint stained, and leaves the acrylic from his latest project drying on his hands. It's something to remember, something to focus on. If he's in armor it'll be too easy to fight. The paint means he has to go back home, to Drake and the goddamn mural, he has to finish what he started and do it right.
He knocks on the door. Stands there scowling at the ground. This is going to end so well.
Once, not so long ago, Ephemera would have solved this with his fists. Grabbed the fucker by the hair or the back of the neck if he didn't have hair, and then just throw him against the wall. Bash his skull into something solid until the problem stopped breathing. He'd done it a few times on the Tartarus, back when people saw his face and thought it meant opportunity. The guards stopped giving him cellmates, after a while. But that had been part of the plan, too. He'd gotten a reputation early and maintained it as needed. And he'd waited.
For however long it took, he'd sworn to wait. And track down every last one of those fuckers who murdered his family. He'd promised the captain, and even if he hadn't, Ephemera knows he owes CT. It's the sort of debt that can't be measured and can't be forgotten even after dying. For CT, for Chica and the twins, Barrows and Crow, even that bastard Rodriguez. All of them. His brothers and sisters. Freelancer might have buried all their ugly secrets, but he remembered. Sharkface remembered.
And for a long time, that had kept him going. The knowledge that he'd avenge them. No matter how long it took. He'd wait.
Because when he was finally standing next to them, in hell or the afterlife or whatever came next, he would have kept his word.
It's different now. He's trying to be a whole person.
It doesn't always work.
But he promised to try. To be better. Promised Drake and the doc and Lup. All of them are here and none of them are going to die, he'll make sure of it. They matter too much.
That means he has to settle it.
It's not hard to figure out which Sim trooper has his helmet, or where he's staying. It's a small place. He and Washington have an understanding, most days.
So Ephemera shows up a day later in civilian clothes, jeans and a sweatshirt, both of them paint stained, and leaves the acrylic from his latest project drying on his hands. It's something to remember, something to focus on. If he's in armor it'll be too easy to fight. The paint means he has to go back home, to Drake and the goddamn mural, he has to finish what he started and do it right.
He knocks on the door. Stands there scowling at the ground. This is going to end so well.
no subject
Alright. Sorry I punched you.
no subject
I'm not sorry I stole your helmet.
[Because he deserved it. Because it brought him here so they could talk, get them on some weird, even footing. It wasn't completely bad.]
So, can you paint anything on armor?
no subject
Pretty much. Why?
no subject
Think you could do my sword on one of the arms?
no subject
I'll need to make a stencil. Otherwise the lines won't dry straight.
[Be easier with spray paint, but he hasn't got any. So.]
Yeah, okay.
[He watches Tucker carefully.]
Give me a day. Then come see me, and I'll paint it.
no subject
[But hey, look, he smiled, a real one, honest one. He didn't think that he would actually paint a dick on his arm, but boundaries were good or something. At least all the bases were covered and the warning was there.]
Where should I meet you?
no subject
Spire 4. 801.
[There's a pause.]
I live with someone. Don't hit on them.
no subject
I make no promises.
no subject
[Ephemera almost smiles then.]
Just saying.
[There's a convenient window. And it's not like the fall would kill anyone in armor.
Well. Probably.]
no subject
[Come on, threatening just made it more fun. Do you even know how many times he hit on Tex? Or Carolina? There was something fun when there was a sense of possible death involved.]
Wait, are you two-- [And he made the crudest hand gesture he could. Classy. Super classy.]
no subject
Uh huh. Please don't make me regret this, Tucker.
no subject
Hey, man, that goes both ways.
no subject
Uh huh. Right. I'm gonna go now.
[Before it really gets awkward.]
no subject
He nodded before walking to the door. What was he supposed to say? What could he say?]
I'll see you tomorrow, then. If you want, I'll send you a picture of the sword for reference.
no subject
Yeah. That'd help.
no subject
[A picture of a sword that's literally just his sword and not a euphemism. It's been a while since he did one of those.]
See you, Ephemera.
no subject
Ephemera counts that as a win. It's small, but he'll take it.
And it's kinda fun, working on the stencil. Tucker's sword has an odd shape and a distinct color. It has to fit on his armor and not get fucked up with the original base coat. And the stencil has to be applied carefully since he's going to be brush painting it.
It's a good challenge. Ephemera finally settles on a two-tone design, white for the main body of the sword and then a darker blue for the shadows. He's been working on it for a while, drawing out rough ideas and then finally committing to one, and barely hears the knock on the door.
Oh. Right.
He opens the door, squinting.]
Hey, Tucker.
[There's a bandage over his bad eye and paint on his hands, but Ephemera otherwise looks about the same as he did last time. He steps back.]
You can come in.
[The apartment is small and messy. Paints everywhere. Murals on the walls. Galaxies and cityscapes.]