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((Alright. So here’s the deal.))
((With the events of Trickster Week made canon, Jake clearly would be none too happy with an older and snarkier Dirk lookalike living in his man-hideout. Though a LOT more plot was meant to be established between Bro and Jake, for reasons beyond the control of the players involved, this was never published on Tumblr and was left largely as message platform conjecture. The way things stand now, we’ve agreed it easier - though not necessarily ideal - to completely retcon the Jake-Bro situation: they met once, and a very confused and baffled Jake then scuttled away, embarrassed for himself, and they haven’t crossed paths since.
This means Bro has been living in a homeless shelter trying to make ends meet. Poor dude. It’s hard being an other-dimensional amnesiac with no bank account or state-issued ID or records of any kind. It’s hard and no one understands. He’s currently scoping for employment and trying to piece things back together for himself.
Yeah. We really dropped the ball on this one, guys. And those involved all recognize that. I wish it could be different but this is the route that has to be taken, and we’re discussing ways to work his character back into the main plot. Stay tuned.
And if any readers have something they’d like to see from Bro, interaction or scenario-wise, feel free to shoot me an ask. We’ve got ideas rolling between the mods and myself right now, but we’re always happy to hear suggestions from the readers too!))
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>Itchy: Panic
When he grabs your shirt collar, the first thing you scream is, “not the face!” before you realize he’s just yelling at you and hasn’t reared back a fist to try and punch you. You stop cringing and waiting for the death blow to come and glare up at him. What the fuck is up with people being taller than you? You’re probably older than him, damn it!
And what in god’s name gives him the right to yell at you like it’s your fault that you hit him? He was the dumpass that walked in front of your car!
“That,” You start in a matter-of-fact tone as you swat his hand away from your shirt. “would be a dumbass walking out in front of a speeding car and denting the car.” You glare up at him, puffing up your chest in an attempt to make up for the difference in height.
You jab him in the chest with the window scraper. “The real question is what the fuck you were thinking running out in front of a speeding car, I mean, what the fuck, man? Did you not learn how to look both ways in preschool? Did you just fuckin’ miss the lesson where the teacher tells you to grab your goddamn street-crossing partner and look both fucking ways?”The asshole shrieks something about preserving the (minimal, you think) integrity of his face, and oh man would you have a field day with that one under different circumstances but you suppose in its own way it evens out: you hadn’t considered hitting him until his outburst planted the thought in your head.
“Wrong ,” you counter, turning your face to spit a bloody wad of saliva onto the sidewalk and raking the back of your free hand across your lips. If you lost a tooth over this you’re gonna be pissed to high heaven and then higher, right out of the atmosphere and into the goddamn sun. You are not decrepit enough for falsies and dentures. Chips add character. A gaping hole in your gums speaks of rot and hicktown and you, good sir, are neither. “That would be the wannabe Indy racer who gets his rocks off drifting in pedestrian neighborhoods and redecking the pavement with his own tire tread. Where the fuck did you learn to drive? Four-bit PC emulations of Playstation games?”
He juts his chest out like an angry bird in Discovery Channel specials and you snort, half expecting him to try to waddle around and squawk in defense of his territory. “What was I thinking?” you repeat incredulously, astounded by the breadth of his stupidity. “The sign said Stop, don’t you know how to read? Or is that another skill, much like the successful operation of heavy machinery, that eludes you entirely?” He keeps talking, the window scraper sticking into your ribcage, and you reach between the two of you and snap it in half with one hand.
You’re becoming increasingly agitated - you were just hit by a car and now you’re being harangued by its dipshit occupant. The prospect of pulling your fist back and letting it fly is becoming ever more appealing. You lower your voice.
“Are you jonesin’ for a bonesin’ of the breaking variety, pal?” Your tone is slow, even, and anyone else who knew you - any person hearing it at all, ever - would recognize it as a warning. ‘Cause if not, I suggest you back the fuck off.”
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==> Recieve an Invitation
Yeeup, you were the youngest face this side of the table. Everyone else on the panel looked to be about in their mid forties and here you were still trying to kick out of your teens. It was definitely a sight for sore eyes when someone NOT over the hill walks in and sit next to you. Though, you guess you could do without the anime shades and the lazy posture.
You nod to him calmly, but your foot is shaking nervously. You HATE big crowds, why the hell does there have to be so many nerds around here? This place is noisy and loud and full of people. Why on earth did you agree to this?
You take a sip of water and try to calm your nerves. Once you all start talking about stuff it will be fine. Just keep telling yourself that and you’ll be fine.
The baby-faced hipster you crash next to offers a welcoming nod which you return, a single, minute upward motion of your chin to convey your amicable intentions and so on and so forth what-fucking-ever, seriously. He looks like he’s someone’s assistant, a waterboy almost and a bad one at that, given the way he’s downing his own cup, but the badge at his shirt gives him as much right to be there as you do.
Technically, you don’t have a right to be there. But you’ll give the other guy a little more credibility.
Just a little.
Plopping down, you kick your feet out in front of you and sprawl an arm over the back of the chair. The other panel associates are garbed in decisively more professional attire, aside from 3D next to you. But hey. Your shirt has a collar. You don’t see the big fucking deal.
You glance over at him. Probably some privileged douche from a fancy-ass liberal arts school. Still, either you rot in the din of the visitors as they wiggle into their seats or you stir up some kind of interpersonal contact. You yawn, and turn to face him.
“Some shindig, huh?”
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Anonymous asked: I can't understand why I am in love with you, care to explain how on earth you, an ironic semi-bastard manages to woo the hearts of millions? >:T
Semi-bastard.
Excuse you.
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Anonymous asked: So you like threesomes, huh?
I appreciate a well executed Eiffel-Towering.
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>Itchy: Panic
You have no idea what you’re going to do, and it’s obvious you’re not used to having to cover your own ass as you run your fingers through your hair and stare at the poor sap you just hit doing sixty. Well, you think you hit him. There was a thud, the guy went down, and you’re now standing over him with one hand tangled in your hair and the other clutching a phone. Doze, the only person in the Felt that can tolerate you for short periods of time, was probably asleep and you don’t want to call anyone else for fear of them using this to get under your skin the next time you fuck with them.
“Shit, shit, shit…this fucking sucks, oh c’mon, please don’t be dead.” You say to the likely stiff in front of you. Your car’s got a dented fender, and normally you’d be more worried about that than the fact that you hit someone, but you were actually slowing down to stop, so you couldn’t use the speed to lose yourself and forget that you may have killed someone with your car.
You don’t like killing people. Sure, you’re a mobster and you have to, but business is different than this.
You kick his arm with your sneaker covered foot, biting your lower lip before running to your car and digging around in the back seat. Finding what you were looking for - a window scraper - and arming yourself with it, you return to the stiff and squat down as far away from him as possibly, nudging him with the window scraper.
The guy was kind of cute. You say “was” because, well, he was likely dead. At least he’d look good for his funeral. You poke his cheek with the scraper, hoping that maybe he wasn’t dead, just injured. If he was alive, you could stuff him in the back seat, drive him to the hospital, and shove him out on your way past. Oh, wait, there’s breathing. Awesome. “Hey. Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, suicidal asshole.” You say, poking him a little harder. “You alive? Hey, c’mon. Wake the fuck up and shake it off, you’ll be fine.”
You hope.
You are so, so fucking tired of waking up face down on the pavement.
Granted, at least this time you aren’t coming to with a gaping hole pistoning your ribcage, but the - what the fuck even is that, a stick? - poking the muscled curve of your shoulder does little curb your agitation. You don’t think anything’s broken, a pleasant and well-deserved reprieve, but you’re pissed and your head is ringing with its personal own Quasimodo haranguing the cathedral bells of your blessed brain.
You were just railed. By a canary yellow Hennessey Venom GT doing at least sixty in a thirty-five zone and you’d be damned to all different kinds of illiterate vehicle hells if you couldn’t recognize the make and model of that fine body before it slammed into yours.
He calls you a suicidal asshole and your arm raises and finds his shirt collar, using him as leverage to drag yourself up off the asphalt. Your hat’s flatted to the sidewalk, shades askew and hair treacherously sharp silhouetted against the moonlight. When you finally straighten to your full height you ignore the pain in your wrist, the tension in your side, and stare this punk ass kid straight in the eye because-
“What the FUCK was that?!”
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Anonymous asked: Ah, I see. I figured it was something like that but I wanted to make sure!
((No, I appreciate you bringing it to my attention! You probably weren’t the only one with that question, so I’m glad I can explain it for others who may have been confused as well.))
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Anonymous asked: Your last post has me confused. Are you supposed to be living with Jake? When did that happen? Have I missed something?
((Ah, yes, I should certainly clarify. Thank you for pointing that out! The roleplays running right now (Bro meeting Jake, attending the convention, and being run over by Itchy) are staggered, meaning they’re occurring with time between them to space them out. Valentine’s is the most recent, albeit noncanon, followed by Itchy, with the Jake roleplay being the oldest chronologically speaking. That RP was meant to be finished well before now, but I had a personal thing come up, so unfortunately, my activity ground to a halt for a while. But yes, the Jake encounter will eventually culminate in the two of them exchanging a few words and running into each other again before Jake offers the homeless Bro a chance to pay rent for a room in his pad. I hope that explains the discrepancy!))
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==> Recieve an Invitation
Your mailbox pings. Not your spam one, or your hero one. No, this is the personal one, the “work” one. You click on the email and begin to read.
Dear Mr. Captor,
We have read about your astonishing achievements in programming and science, and we wish for you to be a part of our upcoming convention.
The convention of Science and Technology will be holding a panel of intellectuals such as yourself to answer questions and debate on certain topics for out guest. We would be honored if you would attend.
Sincerely,
The Science and Technology Association
It’s been a while since you’ve done anything for your non-hero work.
What could the harm be?
You respond with your acceptance of the idea, and are given a pass and directions to where the convention will meet. Three days enveloped in nerdom.
Vacation time? You think so.
You’d been padding around town running menial errands for the kid (you still call him that, and even though he narrows his eyes and pouts at you with the vehemence of the demographic your nickname caters to, you know he doesn’t hate it half as much as he pretends to) you’ve been shacking up with when your new phone, rolling with a data plan that functions in this new timeline, chimes in with a sound you recognize as an incoming email. Digging into your pocket, you whip it out and scan the screen, and are pleasantly surprised to see that it’s a forward from Jake himself. There’s a convention coming up, science and technology, and he was sweet enough to passive-aggressively explain that he thought you might be interested in attending.
Cool. You snap your phone shut and mark the date in your calendar.
When you get back, there’s a note on the counter in his messy scrawl. Something about a panel, you read as you suck down a bottle of Fanta. Open seat? You hadn’t expected to be anything but a patron of the convention, but if there’s influence (and you know he has connections, however frivolous he himself may be) pushing you toward a seat, you’ll take it.
You could do without the crowd though.
The day of the convention finds you wading through a tittering hoard of greasy nerds and put-together intellectuals, and after arguing with a security guard over your qualifications and the badge - you brandish it in his face - that gives you the right to slip backstage for the panel promos as an invited guest, you finally meander to the table where your “associates” are gathered.
You take the first open seat you can find, on the end of the table, next to some guy with two-toned glasses.
How fucking edgy.
