lazyandincompetent | (no subject)

Nathan has decided this place isn't half bad.

Exhibit A: His flat. No more crashing in the community centre, curled up in a shitty sleeping bag on the cold floor. Instead he's got a bed. In an actual bedroom. And it isn't just a mattress on the floor either, he's got a proper bedframe and a headboard and even a little bedside table where he throws his cigarettes and his weed and his lighter after a long day. There's a living room with a proper couch, a kitchen, and his bathroom doesn't have a single stall door in the whole thing. If he wants a shower, he can draw a curtain. True privacy.

Exhibit B: Weed is legal. Weed is legal. He's cheerily smoking a pre-rolled joint now, right out in the middle of the sidewalk where anyone can see, and no one is going to stop him or try to arrest him. Not for this, anyway, and Nathan takes a nice, big hit, then lets out a contented sigh. He's spent the better part of the last week and a bit mostly stoned, as soon as he rounded the corner from his flat during an exploration day just after his arrival and found a dispensary just staring at him. He wonders if he can work there. Talk about a dream job.

Exhibit C: Everyone is pretty friendly, including a very pretty woman in his building. She looks kind of old timey, with long pale hair and a proper high necked nightgown, but Nathan can dig it. They haven't really talked any, but he can see it in her eyes. She's interested.

There are probably other exhibits, other things that make this place better than Wertham, and maybe Nathan misses Kelly, maybe he even misses Simon a little, but this is still better. A flat and weed. That's all he needs. The money helps, too, although he's blown most of this month's cash on said weed and a lot of food and also a really nice record player and a pair of expensive wireless (wireless!) headphones for his new phone, which holds way more music than his iPod ever did.

He's got those headphones on now as he walks, smoking his joint, listening to Soundgarden as loud as he possibly can, when he's stopped by someone. A young guy waves at him, trying to get his attention, and Nathan pauses his music, then pulls down his headphones.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Do you know where High Gate Terrace is?" the guy asks. "I'm supposed to meet someone there."

"Nah, sorry, mate," Nathan answers, then gestures with one hand, indicating the city at large. "I just got here. New to this whole thing. I don't even know where I live half the time."

"No," the guy mutters. "No, this isn't right. I have to be there."

"You're not about to have a mental breakdown are you?" Nathan asks, only partly wary. The rest of him is downright interested. "Just snap and go completely fucking mad? 'Cause that'd be fun to watch."

[Nathan is talking to a ghost, but doesn't know it, because he doesn't know he has that ability yet. :D]

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"So you don't really know you're immortal," Butcher reasons. "All you know is you died and come back. Loads'a human interest stories 'bout wakin' up in graves. Really, lad, not very impressive. Maybe you're an unlucky fuck can take to dead people."

He takes a step forward, his half-grin spreading. "'Course if you wanna test my theory, I'd be more'n happy to assist."

Good murder is hard to come by and it seems to make people so angry. If this kid wants to prove to one or both of them that he's got a better power than chatting up dead blokes, he's in a position to assist. If he's wrong, that won't really matter to Butcher much, either.

"Loads of human interest stories about people who die and then come back to life," Nathan echoes, looking at Grizzly Adams with an arched eyebrow. "You read some weird fuckin' human interest stories, I gotta say."

His joint is just about finished, which sucks, because then he'll have to focus on this conversation and he's fairly certain it isn't going to keep his interest. At least, that's what he thinks until the guy offers to kill him.

"Is there something wrong with you? Like, in your brain?" he asks, backing away a few steps. He's not scared, exactly, because of the whole immortality thing, but he also doesn't want to get killed by this bearded fuck in the middle of the street. "Because I'm a fuck-up and even I know going around and offering to kill strangers is really bloody psycho. Is that it? Escaped from one of those rooms with the bars on the windows and all the padding on the walls?"

What is it with this face having a problem with murder? Supes are different here - fine. They're not all immortal and they get real sensitive about killing. This one is unkillable, kind of a cunt and he still is precious about his life? Such a fucking trip.

It's not that Butcher likes that he craves violence. It's all he's ever known. MM says there's a price that comes with every life. Frenchie says his kills are scars, each with an associated, painful story. What a luxury, that. If Butcher remembered every kill, there would be no space in him for anything else.

"Different type'a facility, other side'a the glass," Butcher corrects easily, regarding the lad's trepidation with eerie serenity. "If you're tryin' to hurt my feelings you're gonna have to try much harder than that, lad." A member of the clergy once called him an asshole and that is a point of pride.

The fact that he asked at all instead of just lunging the distance between them and finishing the job is tremendous growth. There's no reason for him to know that, but it's still mildly irritating that asking for consent isn't worth something in this instance.

"I get the sense you think pretty highly of yourself, so this might come as a surprise t'you, but I honestly don't give a shit about your feelings one way or the other," Nathan answers. "It was a genuine question, because no matter which side of the glass you were on, it's still pretty fucking psychotic, just offering t'kill a guy."

He gestures at himself, "And this is coming from the guy with no shame. I'm a proud fuck-up, mate, I don't even know what the hell you are."

He pinches the joint to extinguish it, then slips it into the front pocket of his jeans, regardless of how it'll make his clothes smell. At this point he should probably walk away or he really will end up getting killed, which he doesn't especially want at the moment, immortal or not. He has a feeling this creep will make it bloody and he quite likes the shirt he's wearing.

"You realize people shit themselves when they die, right?" he asks. "Why do you think anyone who's then going to wake up in the same bloody clothes would volunteer for that? Walking home with full trousers? No thank you."

Edited 2021-03-11 15:50 (UTC)

There's really nothing this lad is saying that makes him terribly angry. The border to annoyed is a few miles back, but there's a long stretch before blind rage.

Mostly, he kind of just wants to shut this popsicle stick up for a while. How long had it taken when they drowned that bloke in a bucket? Fifteen minutes? That was the time to beat, and a lad as full of air as this one might be too buoyant from the start.

It's not the best way to kill a person, but he supposes he could cut him into pieces. That's usually more for body disposal. Anyway, it worked pretty fucking well on the last unkillable cunt. Butcher's not sure he wants to commit to killing him forever. Since he doesn't know how his powers work and he clearly has hang-ups about being murdered at all, it seems murder is - unfortunately - out of the question.

Billy rejoins the conversation in time to be informed that dead people shit themselves. This fuck wasn't kidding when he said he's new to the whole death thing.

"Shittin' yourself's least of your problems," Butcher estimates, given he's seen a whole fucking lot of death. "I'd get used to it if I were you. Bag'a hot air like you, won't be long 'til talk yourself into a new pantload. And they ain't gonna ask first."

From his takeout bag, he produces a cigarette and lights it. "Best'a luck to ya." He heads toward the High Gate door and shouts back, "bodega on the corner sells nappies. Adult small aught to do it!"