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(no subject)

Who: Eddie, OTA
Where: Blue Apple port
When: Throughout the plot
What: oh u know..New York things…
Warnings: None yet! Will add if need be.

1. Arrival

[ Eddie has spent his entire life in Indiana. Not for lack of desire to leave, of course, but there was always something keeping him there. School, mainly, and his uncle. And it’s not like his shitty run-down van was ever going to take him any further than Indianapolis.

This is definitely not the New York he’s always pictured, though, and it’s definitely not the one from the movies. It’s weird, but he’s certain he’s seen weirder. When he steps off the Barge, he rubs his eyes just to make certain he’s not seeing things. He certainly was not expecting to see the ocean and New York City all in one go.

He muses aloud: ]

So, uh…What if you get seasick? I mean—

[ He sweeps his arm, gesturing to the endless blue ocean. ]

Not saying I do. I wouldn’t know, but you can’t really escape it, right?

2. Floating Markets

[ Eddie learns very quickly that he doesn’t enjoy the whole boating part of this venture. He’s handling it, but he’s clearly uncomfortable and has nearly tipped into the ocean more than once. The floating markets are interesting enough to draw him over, however, and if you happen to be near a particular stall at a particular time, you might hear a loud, high pitched scream. Either someone is being mugged, or it’s just Eddie Munson getting a little over excited again. ]

Holy shit! Holy fucking shit! Jesus Christ, there is no fucking way!

[ It’s clearly the latter, because in his hand, he holds a media wafer with “Metallica - …And Justice for All” stamped across it. It’s a flimsy thing, but he’s gripping it with wide eyes like he just found the holy grail right here in the middle of a bootleg stall. It’s not like anyone else is clamoring for it, but it’s clear that he can and will fight anyone who tries to take it from him. ]

When was this released? No, dude, you’ve gotta tell me how to play this. You’ve gotta tell me how to play it right now!

3. Midtown (but not the band)

[ It’s almost out of character for Eddie to even venture into a club he doesn’t have a gig at, but he could use a drink for his eternally jangled nerves.

If you manage to catch him, you might find him arguing loudly with the bartender, who seems to think he’s far younger than he actually is. ]

I’m twenty years old, dude! Jesus Christ. You’re telling me you’ve still got that whole drinking age thing going on? That’s bullshit, man.

4. Wildcard

[ Choose your own adventure. You can find Eddie probably almost anywhere around the city or even the barge. Surprise me or find me at

muttonchops for plotting! ]

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"You know, once the library's finished putting itself back together, we got Metallica's whole collection in there," B says with an amused expression, pausing to rescue the poor music stall owner from Eddie's exuberance. "I have one of their albums in my cabin, right now."

If it were even possible, Eddie’s eyes grow wider. When he left home (or died; he hasn’t quite allowed himself the moment to think about it out of fear), Metallica had three albums. What he’s holding now wasn’t one of them.

"What the hell," he whispers, more to himself than anything else, gripping the media wafer tightly to his chest. This is so much more than he ever expected.

"Dude--listen, you’ve gotta tell me everything. Which one? How many albums do they have? Hetfield’s still in the band, right?"

He should've expected that. "Uh, their greatest hits is the one I have, I don't know, and I'm not sure which one Hetfield is? I don't think I ever looked at their names. I'm B, by the way."

He extends his hand, hoping to make get the poor kid to let up on his death grip on the wafer thing, so he doesn't damage it.

“Lead singer. Rhythm guitarist for all intents and purposes but, uh, just between you and me? I think he’s a bit better than Kirk Hammett. Not that it’s a competition—“

He holds up his hands defensively. This is clearly one of his favorite subjects to discuss. He hesitates to give up the media wafer, but ultimately relinquishes it. With the animated way he speaks, it's bound to end up in the ocean if he doesn't.

“Uh. Eddie. Nice to meet another Metallica fan. I--how many hits do they have?”

He's literally in awe.

"There's twelve songs on the album I got," B says, and gently puts the wafer back on the stand, before offering Eddie his hand to shake, instead. "And I'm a fan of music, in general, from Nine Inch Nails to Glenn Miller. I can play Nothing Else Matters on the piano, though. Name's B." Yes, just the letter.

“Holy shit,” he repeats in complete awe, shaking B’s hand for perhaps a little too long. Twelve greatest hits from a band who hasn’t yet reached their peak popularity in his world is everything Eddie could have wished for and more.

“Sorry, uh—“

He snaps himself out of it. Music clearly means a lot to him, and Metallica is at the top of the list.

"I’ve never heard of Nine Inch Nails. Or Glenn Miller, but--Dio? Iron Maiden? Megadeth? You know any of them?"

"Glenn Miller is from the 30s and 40s, big band stuff and jazz," B explains, amused. Kid seems all right, honestly. He'd been a bit of a nerd about music when he was younger, too. "Nine Inch Nails is industrial. Kinda like Metallica, but with more distortion, and less screaming. I've heard of Iron Maiden, think I've heard a song or two, but not Megadeth."

But he does have a thought: "When are you from?"

“Uh...Middle of nowhere, Indiana,” he replies with a wry smile. “Not really the most exciting place unless you’re really into corn or farming, but I guess it’s home.”

At the moment, he can’t say he’d go back if he had the opportunity, but who knows? Maybe he’ll come across a bought of homesickness eventually.

"Brooklyn, New York," B says with half a smile. "Kinda like this place. Except, for me it was last seen in 2023." Because he has a theory that this kid is from a lot earlier than that. Maybe not as early as when he was born, but well before his last memories.

If you grow up here, you probably don't...?

[That's Misty's guess, anyway. She turns in a slow circle, giving herself a good 360-degree view.]

I mean, sailors get sea legs once they're used to it, and then feel totally weird once they're back on dry land. Maybe not being on the ocean is what would make the people here seasick.

I dunno, man.

[ From the look on his face, it’s clear that he doesn’t totally buy that as one explanation. He’s spent his entire life in a landlocked state, though, and he isn’t even a particularly good swimmer. ]

Isn’t motion sickness like, genetic or some shit?

[ It’s a guess, but most things like that are genetic, so he’s got a good shot at being correct. ]

Or do you think they’ve just fazed it out by now? You know, like the plague. And disco.

Probably! And, um, it's an inner ear thing, so... that could be genetic, I guess.

[She steps out onto a rope bridge, which sways a little under her feet.]

Why don't you look for puke piles! Or people who look sick.

[ He gets the faintest feeling that he’s being messed with. Which is fine, he’s used to it.]

Nah, you see, I’m just gonna walk behind you and wait for you to find the puke piles.

[She looks over her shoulder with a wry smile - hoping, for her part, that this is a shared joke rather than him messing with her. Though if her hopes are wrong and it is indeed the latter, she's prepared to pretend that it's the former.]

Well, I'm a very observant person. I won't find them with my shoes. But fine! I'll protect you.

[ He’s grinning, albeit somewhat nervously, hoping that his joke has hit the mark because it’s probably not a great idea to poke all these bears. He just can’t help it. It’s fun until someone gets angry because they’ve stepped in sick. ]

You know, the human shield is an incredibly honorable position. Only the bravest of the brave can manage, especially when their shoes are on the line.

Luckily, these shoes are really easy to wash.

[Crocs. They're Crocs. No one will ever accuse Misty of being fashion-forward.]

So, uh, we spoke on the network, but I never actually got your name. As your bodyguard, I think I'm due this privileged information!

Well, I did say it was privileged information, but uh...if you’re gonna be my bodyguard against puke puddles, then why not?

[ It was never privileged information, of course. It was just a joke. He grins, taking great care to search for puddles of sick despite putting Misty ahead of him. His shoes aren’t half as easy to wash. ]

My name is Eddie. And you know, I seem to recall that all I got out of you was that you killed a journalist. Which I've gotta say doesn't exactly put me at ease, but I might feel a bit better if I got your name as well.

Misty Quigley.

[She sticks out a hand for a shake.]

Don't worry, it was premeditated and-- kind of provoked; you're not in danger!

[ He only pauses briefly, and tilts his head at an odd angle. Is he checking to make sure she has nothing up her sleeve before he shakes her hand? He absolutely is, but it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with Misty's crimes. He’d do this to anyone. ]

I mean, don't get this twisted because I'm not saying I approve, but uh...isn't journalist sort of one of the douchier career paths a person can take? Not like, lawyer or politician levels, but you know...kind of somewhere in the middle.

[ That might just be the journalists in your town, Eddie. ]

[Luckily, the sleeves are clear! She absolutely notices what he's doing, though, and it makes her smile a little.]

Oh, totally! Especially this journalist, who was also a political fixer, who was stalking me and my friends, and who I had credible reason to believe might have murdered someone.

[Blanky doesn't know how old Eddie is, but he recognizes him from the Barge and, well, he doesn't understand why there's drinking laws in the first place. He smiles at the bartender and nods to Eddie.]

I assure you, sir, he's quite of age. Don't let his looks fool you.

[ Eddie is twenty (and edging awfully close to twenty-one), but either his nervous demeanor must really aid in him reading like a teenage boy or people are blind. He’s already been confused for anything from twelve to eighteen.

Eddie could stand here arguing all day, but it’s only when Blanky intervenes that the bartender finally relents and slides a beer his way. ]

See, dude? See? I told you.

[ He rolls his eyes and turns to Blanky. He vaguely recognizes him as someone from the Barge, but they’ve never spoken. He doesn’t even know if the man is a warden or an inmate. ]

Uh, thanks, man. I appreciate it.

Quite all right.

[He gets a beer and doffs his hat to Eddie.]

Thomas Blanky, at your service. You're from the Barge, right?

Yeah. Eddie Munson.

[ And since he doesn’t have a hat to tip, he offers his hand instead. ]

You been there for long? I've only been there--well, I've lost count, but it's been a few weeks.

[Blanky shakes his hand.]

Quite a while, yes. Three and a half years on the Barge, with a year in there on the Flotilla. Not everyone experienced that time, but I did.

[Yes, it's confusing. Eddie will have to get used to it.]

Uh…

[ He’s trying very hard to get used to it, but it’s clear he doesn’t really understand. ]

Yeah, alright.

[ He lowers his voice. ]

What…what is the Flotilla?

[Blanky leans in, confidingly.]

It's a whole bunch of ships tied together in some kind of... anomaly thing. We crashed there a while back. Some people spent a year there. Time things. I don't understand it, either.

Got it.

[ That’s a partial lie. He can’t quite picture anything but a bunch of ships quite literally tied together like some sort of Transformer. But it’s fine! It’s fine, totally fine. ]

Three and a half years though. That’s, uh…that’s a lot. You ever think about going home?

Sometimes. But I have friends here and I have to take care to go back to somewhere that is not the place I left. I was in the Arctic, when the Admiral found me.

[He was planning on sacrificing himself to a horrible creature to save his friends, but that's probably a bit much to drop on Eddie now.]

[ His eyebrows raise, and he tilts his head, wondering if his ears are playing tricks on him or if he heard correctly. ]

Yeah, uh…you’re gonna have to forgive me, but it sounded like you said you were in the Arctic. What’s there? Penguins? Yetis?

Polar bears and caribou. Penguins are in Antarctica. There's also supposed to be a trade route that the Admiralty was eager to find, so it sent expeditions.

[ Eddie isn’t unintelligent. He’s smart as a whip, actually, but he was never the best student in school and he vaguely finds himself wondering Antartica, the Arctic, there’s a difference?

He doesn’t ask out loud, of course. ]

Uh huh.

[ It’s sinking in that he’s finally found someone from further back in time than he and Steve. He’s pretty sure that no one looks for trade routes anymore. ]

Yeah, man, I wouldn’t wanna go back to the Arctic either. I mean, if a polar bear doesn’t get you first, there’s still the frostbite.

Frostbite, starvation, scurvy. It's quite dreadful.

[He takes a long drink.]

This place is much nicer.

'What the fuck is a drinking age?"

Comes the gruff, albeit slightly older tone of a man who's been drinking watered-down wine since he was about, oh, three.

Trevor walks over, beer already in hand, his other on his belt for his weapons.

"Problem?" He asks, cheerfully. He's asking Eddie; you don't piss off the man who has beer, everyone knows that.

Eddie jumps at the sound of Trevor’s voice, and his eyes dart around as if he’s the one in trouble in this situation. He’s used to fingers being pointed at him, even if he’s totally innocent.

“Uhhh,” he begins, unsure if he’s about to fall into some sort of trap just by responding. “No? I mean, it’s cool. Just—America has drinking laws, you know? It's total bullshit and I figured they’d have done away with those by now, but, uh—” He shrugs. “Guess not.”

Trevor eyes the kid, then eyes the bartender, seemingly debating if he wants to get his hands dirty. America the Continent always seemed like a weird place; what, so kids can't drink watered-down piss any longer?

He exhales, but hands his beer to Eddie and goes to order a second one.

"Here. 'Hold' this."

Eddie grins, and happily relieves Trevor of the second beer, not-so subtly flipping the bartender off as he takes a long swig. Trevor may not want to get his hands dirty, but Eddie has a hard time not causing a bit of trouble.

"Hey, uh...thanks, man." He turns to Trevor again, gesturing to the mug in his hand. "You know, they put that stupid law into effect the year I turned eighteen? It’s bullshit, dude. I can't believe they're still clinging so hard to it like teenagers aren't in their parents' liquor cabinets all the time."

Trevor buys another and comes away from the bar to avoid getting death glares from the man. He gives a rough nod back, the best equivalent he has for a smile when he's nursing a headache for want of a drink.

"I keep forgetting about laws." He says, by way of apology. "We don't have shit like that for beer where I come from. Been drinking since...er, fourteen? Somewhere along there."

He takes a sip, and visibly relaxes, more charitable when he offers next;

"I'm Trevor, by the way."

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