closed | for want of wit, to memory now i can't recall,

[murderbaby]

WHO: Mhav, Jone, Amos, and some others.
WHAT: This is a catch-all post for some starters I owe.
WHEN: Post-dream, Mid-Guardian.
WHERE: Gallows, Kirkwall generally.
NOTES: I will keep you informed if something horrible happens.

Comments

FOR TONY.

[innerharbor]

The pachinko machine... isn't finished. It's pretty close, though. Tony's scrap supply has been a big help, even if it's not a big enough help to compensate for the constant stream of chaotic bullshit that seems to creep in every corner of the Gallows. Not even your fucking dreams are safe.

Amos is not a painter, but he is exact. Carefully taping off sections so he can paint a clear, straight arrow through a sea of (soon to come) nails and pins to hinder the ball is nice, quiet work. Or it would be, if Tony wasn't the chatty type.

Luckily, the shit he says mostly isn't completely useless. Amos listens passively. "Pass me that brush," has been his major contribution in the last twenty minutes.

[propulsion]

The brush is passed over.

"And I'm like," he is saying, "Isn't that a little on the nose? I mean, bad enough he's gonna horn in on my whole deal, but you're gonna show up in a red and blue robot suit and call yourself Iron Patriot? It's just a lot, don't you think. And War Machine, I mean, slap that on a lunchbox. Done."

It is possible that Tony has not completely outlined that he is, in fact, a rocket robot superhero himself, and so is his best friend, sort of, but here we are.

He is kicked back in his seat, sanding down some wooden spinny things for the board.

"Anyway. What was I saying. Oh, yeah—we're tossing it around, the airship concept. Something thermal-based is gonna be a son of a bitch to maneuver, and not to mention I think the enemy's got a pet dragon or two. But strictly transport? I mean, why not? Can't be slower than literally any other mode we have right now, including the bird-lions."

[innerharbor]

Amos knows how to tune out the parts he doesn't find interesting (or can't make sense of), or he'd be dead of boredom by now. He hums along, making a vague affirmative when he feels he's supposed to, and paints red in the swooping lines of the pachinko machine.

When it's worth talking, he talks. "Can you figure a way to drop altitude fast? That'd fucking help maneuvers."

It's not quite a flip and burn, but let him dream.