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( OPEN ) i don't want a mental suplex, i want quality customer service
Who: Elliot Nightray (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
meriter) and you!
When: IC 11/25—11/27
Where: Residential District (primarily the CERES Gymnasium) + Shopping District (anywhere)
What: Elliot has a terminal allergy to common sense: a lesson in three (four) parts, comprised of psuedo-drowning, Machiavellian swindlers, and terrible book taste, respectively speaking.
Rating/Warning: None, probably.
1. INSERT SWIMMING PUN HERE (ceres gymnasium.)
2. CULTURE OF THE YOUNG AND VAIN (around, somewhere ...)
3. LMAO, SPOILERS (still around ...)
4. CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE (wildcard!)
meriter) and you!When: IC 11/25—11/27
Where: Residential District (primarily the CERES Gymnasium) + Shopping District (anywhere)
What: Elliot has a terminal allergy to common sense: a lesson in three (four) parts, comprised of psuedo-drowning, Machiavellian swindlers, and terrible book taste, respectively speaking.
Rating/Warning: None, probably.
1. INSERT SWIMMING PUN HERE (ceres gymnasium.)
- [ In reconciliation of every self-deprecatory impulse in his body, Elliot actually shows up for lifeguard duty for the first time in two weeks.
He'd been staving off the financial necessity of having real credits on hand to buy very real things for a long while (like microwave dinners, for one thing, considering he'd survived thus far on a diet of refried peas and mashed potatoes with the consistency of clumping dirt). Monetary gain: the true motivator of any stalwart teenager in these trying, trying times. It wasn't as if he was going to turn to his brothers in some prostrated act of weakness. Just because he'd been hairsplitting nebulous concepts like coming to the gym during his technical shift and maybe staying the whole period instead of flat-out leaving whenever it suited him didn't mean he was a stranger to manual labor. Not at all.
So. It's just another routine day at the swimming pool, and by the third hour he's sweating bullets attempting to get a grip over his genteel, strait-laced Victorian morals. There are just so many exhibitionists about in the afternoons, all in varying levels of undress, and he's blistering red up to his ears keeping his gaze trained at all the patrons without turning away at the sight of scantily-clothed bodies. Literal lingerie, at that — it was nothing short of incredible that Vessalius hadn't succumbed to utter debauchery, exposed day in and day out to water-slick forms and all manner of loosened morals. He'd always been a weird kid, anyway.
But his tension reaches a culminating point hits when someone's apparently spritzing out at the deep end of pool, an arm stuck out and frantically waving him over. Reluctantly, Elliot strips off his jacket and cravat and strides over, peering down at the swimmer in question with scrunched eyebrows a stare tipped toward palpable disdain. ]
Well, what are you waiting for? Hurry up and take my hand already, I don't have all day.
[ Too bad he doesn't have any sense of peripheral awareness to comprehend the rather peculiar grin he's shot with until the stranger's got their hand grappled around his, and then — ]
Gh — no, no, n-o-t again ... !
[ — he falls in. Panic briefly settling in his lungs, he spends a second or two in slantslide vertigo, water rushing around in some great, disorienting deluge before he kicks up, hard, breaks the surface with audible frustration. ]
I HATE THIS JOB!
2. CULTURE OF THE YOUNG AND VAIN (around, somewhere ...)
- [ When his mood considerably sobers, he takes his paycheck for a supermarket splurge to refuel his stockpile of frozen dinners and comes away with several plastic bags full of cheap, cholesterol-inducing foods. Normally he'd head straight for his apartment, but Elliot decides to take the scenic route and ends up finding the kitschiest merchant stalls known to man. One minute he's minding his own business, and the next he's surrounding by a copious amount of creams and lotions purported to rejuvenate youth, like he'd just been plunked in the middle of a health ad and was ethically obligated to spout off some hypocritical drivel about the losers who'd buy into such scams. Seriously.
Well, beggars can't be choosers. Elliot wastes no time forcing his way to the front to blithely jab a finger at one of the offending vendors in question. ]
What a load of crap! It's just like CERES to promote these kinds of underhanded ruses. They're a bunch of raving idiots. I'm surprised they can get anything accomplished.
[ You know, because there's nothing wrong with waxing poetic on insurrection to the merchants. With this kind of bullheaded mentality, Elliot's lucky he isn't get his ass hauled away by security guards right this minute. ]
3. LMAO, SPOILERS (still around ...)
- [ Wayward hellion of paltry exasperation that he is, Elliot Nightray can't get by without self-gratifying himself on one of the finer things in life. Namely, literature. So he makes a habit of scanning the shelves of the bookstore with a probing fixation at least once a week, turning up his nose at the YA section and heading for the classics to spend hours turning through the pages, scouring the contents for answers, or maybe just a quick read.
Only — today it's different, because he's currently engaged in some kind of weird, heated argument with the cashier. On closer inspection, it's composed mostly of angry, one-sided outbursts, like: ]
It's a clear ripoff! This isn't the series I ordered at all. DON'T YOU KNOW ANYTHING?!
[ Or: ]
What do you mean, you don't have any copies of Holy Knight IN STOCK?! What kind of blasted establishment is this? I demand to speak with your higher-ups IMMEDIATELY!
[ If nothing else, bystanders can at least pick up on the fact that there's a very frustrated fanboy hogging the front desk to blather on and on about the most emotionally bloated, self-indulgent novels to ever grace the Latowidge Academy library. ]
4. CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE (wildcard!)
- other than that, he'll be roaming the residential and shopping districts because
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Except before he can get out a counter-protest regarding his arrival and how very little tomfoolery there actually is going on right now, he suddenly finds himself not very level with the poolside at all. Oh, yep - there goes the wall, the now-sideways list of pool rules declaring in big bold letters to nOT HORSE AROUND UNLESS YOU WANT TO DROWN, and then he's smackdown in the water. Smart enough to close his eyes and mouth, at least, so there's no gross rush of chlorine.
He sure wasn't kidding about being able to move around easier with less clothing, fortunately, so he resurfaces pretty quickly after regaining his bearings. It's a hard thing to do underwater, but he perseveres...
And, spluttering, after breaking the surface:]
AUGH!! What— Why?! You've really turned into a ruffian, Elliot—!! You're going to join a street gang before you know it! Go sign up and get your street gang beanie!
[what is he even talking about
More importantly, obviously this sort of horsing around is okay when the stranger does it BUT NOT WHEN ELLIOT DOES IT, oh no. Double standards as far as the eye can see... His shirt has also ballooned up stupidly from the water and he probably looks like he's stuffed a water wingie under there, but he's far too indignant about being pulled in to care.]
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What's that? Sounds like someone doesn't know how to take their own advice seriously! Aren't you here to waste time uselessly floundering about in the water?
[ lmao lmao lmao
He's sneering wide, mouth wholly caught in a shit-eating grin as he pulls himself with some exertion from the stepladder affixed to the side. A few seconds pass, then Elliot lobs over a towel, which lands squarely on Oz's disheveled head.
WHAT A SICKASS BURN (in the pool) ... ]
So. How much longer do you plan to whine in there like a fussy child? This is a public venue, Vessalius. If you want me to babysit you before your shift begins, you'll need to pay me by the hour.
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But he'll take it and use it to wipe the water from his face, and then folds the fabric over his head like a dumb hat to keep the ends from dipping into the water and getting soaked. He shoots a look Elliot's way, next.]
I'm not going to pay you for doing a job you already get paid for! [He... he means babysitting the pool-goers in general, not babysitting him in specific, even though that's sure what it sounded like.
He also doesn't appear to be very keen on getting out just yet, either?! Good work, team. Instead, he just sort of wades his way over toward the pool's edge, folding his arms over the deck and sighing. This is his new home, he lives here now.]
What a way to start the shift. And you didn't even stay in the water! It's like you don't want to go swimming together at all!
[That's something friends do, right???]
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[ Boy, he's laying the sarcasm on thick, as if anyone in the Vessalius dukedom doesn't apply to the prerequisite standard by virtue of being overly-entitled brats. Furthermore, Elliot's nothing if not terribly snarky. It's like he can't go a day without insulting someone else's mother.
In the meantime, Elliot's peeling off his socks and dress shoes in a despairing effort to dry them within the hour while Oz continues being the punkass dweeb all of Tellus practically knows him for at this point. Wadding the mess of leather and polyester cotton beneath the lifeguard post, he straightens, grabbing another towel to swipe messily at his face. ]
Hah?! Who'd want to swim with you in the first place? What a complete waste of time. Besides, isn't it better this way? We both know you'd be too frustrated to work properly if I beat you in every swimming match.
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You get paid to watch the patrons! And since it's not my shift yet, I'm a patron!
[Gosh, Elliot!!! Maybe he'll just run on the deck on purpose specifically to give him a real problem swimmer to have to babysit! But before he can really entertain that thought any further, Elliot goes turborude and insults his swimming skills?! Wow, he doesn't want to hear any of that from the guy who jumped in with his shoes.]
If you beat me? [INCREDULOUS.] And what's that about "every" match? You haven't even beat me once!
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[ SAYS ELLIOT, LOSER EXTRAORDINAIRE, as he backpedals himself into audible hypocrisy. He's keeping one eye peeled in case Oz decides to effect the behavior nuances of a flamingo and go hopping in convolutions around the pool so he can body-tackle him to the ground and earn them both head-splitting concussions, but so far all he's done is ... throw a tantrum ... how predictable.
Superiority inflating, Elliot rises to his full height, airing out the towel in a gesture reminiscent of a housewife's domestic beleaguerment because it's such a pain to prattle on about the obvious. ] It would be unfair to challenge you and get your hopes up when the winner of that contest is already clear. You haven't been properly trained by a licensed professional, so what kind of match would that be? I'm looking out for your best interests here.
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Or not, because Elliot can't keep his dumb mouth shut and Oz too is cursed with being unable to walk away from a situation that should really be walked away from. Where does that leave them? Somewhere stupid, basically...]
Oh... I see.
[And here it goes. Here comes the stupid train. It's rolling fullspeed out of the station and barreling directly toward Elliot. There's no escape now, only imminent death and the bRUTAL AGONY of being run over and left on the side of the tracks. Why can't they just live their lives like normal people??]
You're afraid of losing, right?
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Why can't Oz Vessalius be normal? Why did his brother sycophantically fall head over heels like some lovesick puppy to cater to a kid who still believes in human decency? People are terrible. He's a clear example.
But if it takes running over to prove a point, then Elliot will be more than happy to talk (yell) his head off proving the pipsqueak wrong. ]
You —
[ No elapsed wait time at all, even, just Elliot hoisting Oz out of the pool by his shirt collar with an ungodly fury. ]
WHEN IT COMES DOWN TO IT, YOU'RE REALLY DUMB, AREN'T YOU? I WAS DOING THIS FOR YOUR BENEFIT, BUT IF THAT'S HOW YOU FEEL, THEN WE'LL JUST HAVE TO SEE, WON'T WE? GILBERT ISN'T HERE TO SAVE YOU THIS TIME. DON'T CRY IF YOU LOSE!
[ CHECK OUT HIS ASSERTION OF SUPERIORITY. HE ISN'T SCARED. HE'S PUMPED.
READY.
R-E-A-D-Y.
Perceptibly deflating, he shoves Oz back into the pool, already working on his vest as he retreats to the changing room in the wake of an aggregated fifty or so wholly bewildered stares. If nothing else, he sure knows how to make a grand exit. ]
I accept your challenge. Wait here. If we're going to do this, we'll need to make it as fair and unbiased as possible.
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And then he's suddenly back in the water again, and he resurfaces spluttering a little less this time than he had before. It was bound to happen eventually okay, Elliot couldn't just hold him up like that forever with his lil noodle arms. He wipes some water away from his face along with his soaked fringe, staring off after him along with probably everyone else in the pool.]
I'll wait right here, don't worry! [Because this is EXACTLY WHAT HE WANTED.]
Change fast, okay?
[And then he'll just start wading his way over to the shallow end of the pool while everyone else reluctantly starts going back to their various swimming shenanigans (while probably keeping an eye on them honestly because who wouldn't gawk at these freaks).]
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[ What a pal. Elliot would probably be dead in a ditch — or a digital classroom — by this point if Oz wasn't there to whip him into competitive shape. If he ends up deaf as a potential drawback, that isn't that terrible a price to pay for mediocre attitude lessons, right? Exactly. Glad they could see eye-to-eye for once.
And he's keeping a death hold on his weak-ass chill as he retreats to switch clothes with the cheap loaner's pair in the changing room because he literally didn't come prepared for this swimming match, what the hell. It's taking an exorbitant amount of pride to not go running when he decks himself in some baggy old gym shirt and ratty board pants with floppy sandals to match, but at least he's fastidious about carefully folding and packing away his preppy clothes prior to heading out into the open again.
His only stipulation is that he makes a key note not to stare at himself for too long, because, you know. Elliot's currently dying of embarrassment, arms wrapped tightly around himself, as he readily accosts the nerd swimming in the kiddie portion of the pool. ]
Listen up! What strokes are you best at? Are you more of a long-distance swimmer or are short lengths your forte? I want you to do your best, so you better not lie.
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But here's the problem, which will become obvious as soon as Elliot scoots his rattyass way back out of the changing rooms. Oz knows how to swim in the same way that dogs know how to swim: instinctively, but without actually knowing what the shit they're doing. Long-distance swimming? Short lengths? What are strokes, even?? He's heard the terms in passing in the lifeguard course, but they do sort of automatically assume that all lifeguards already know how to swim upon application. He had picked up the basics on his own, and listens sometimes to the swimming instructors, but outside of that? Nope. He sure wouldn't be able to tell a side stroke from a front crawl.
He stirs the water in little circles while he contemplates what Elliot asks, and then:]
Long-distance! [If it turns out to be a lie, it sure will be an accidental one.] We can just do some laps, right? Or a freestyle race?
[That's a term he knows, at least! One lonely term...
He also pauses after that to look at Elliot's sad sandals, just because.]
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He's raking one hand over his head in exasperation, which is already drying into that perpetual cowlick he boasts 24/7 while staring, rather inscrutably at that, at Vessalius's banana hair. This dweeb really is Something Else. And Elliot could just fake-trip and sprain his ankle, call over the paramedics and rid himself from this disaster. All signs point to calamity in the swimming pool. But for some reason his mouth is working against him, talking like it doesn't actively acknowledge the autonomy of his brain when it comes to making decisions, which is honestly nothing new. ]
Fine, four long-distance laps in the largest pool. Whatever stroke you want is fine. Since you suggested it, we'll go with freestyle. Remember to stretch first. I don't want you cramping up and injuring yourself mid-race.
[ And since Oz's attention is absolutely riveted on his gross, grimy sandals, maybe he'll notice the velocity they're traveling as Elliot kicks one smack-dab into rabbit boy's face.
Who left this loser in the proximity of small children and the elderly. Who left this loser in the proximity of civilization at large, really. ]
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Either way, he's in the process of hefting himself up out of the water so they can head to the larger pool when Elliot decides to send his grossass sandal jetting like a missile toward his head. With an indignant yelp, he DIVES BACK INTO THE SAFETY OF THE WATER... So his stupid face is saved, but the sandal bounces off the top of his banana hair (only momentarily flattening the banana somehow) and flies off directly toward one of the NPC instructors teaching kids how to swim nearby. Naturally, when said instructor swivels around to look for the culprit, Oz owns up responsibly and sensibly by:
1) Pointing immediately at Elliot the one-shoed wonder and
2) Breaking the "no running" rule .2 seconds after hefting himself up and over the side of the pool at the speed of light
No one's blowing the whistle on him because tHE ONLY OTHER LIFEGUARD IS ELLIOT and he's out the side doors leading to the next room over before most people even understand what's going on anyway.]
See you in the big pool!!
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[ Stop trying to turn this into a heartwarming slice-of-life swimming anime, Oz. It's not happening. Elliot isn't going to vindicate his overwhelming superiority/inferiority mess of a complex so you can absolve him of several counts of homicide through the power of friendship and whatever counts as humility nowadays. Vessalius took that shoe to the head pretty well, though — not in a way that garners respect but complicit hilarity, what with being deprived of everything but the momentary satisfaction of watching Oz duck back into the water. Why rob him of the one joy in his life: tormenting dweebs?! But wait, what was that blur just now — ]
Oi, you idiot! No running!
[ As it turns out, NPC swim instructors don't take to lightly to lifeguards roughhousing each other and inadvertently hurtling their gross footwear at small children. When Elliot eventually appears at the Olympic-sized pool a room over, he's sporting a gigantic welt in the contour of a hand over his stinging cheek, like someone had the gall to slap a Nightray in the face and actually got away with it. He tromps noisily through the resounding hall sans mold-infested sandals and human benevolence, face scrunched up in perusal for any telltale blob of banana hair (and accompanying scrawny body) to rugby tackle to the bottom of the pool. ]
Get out here, pipsqueak! I'm going to throttle you first!
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Yeah Oz sure is long gone by the time Elliot actually catches up, especially considering he gets tangled up in the (very physical) scolding that probably should have been split between the two of them. OOPS. That's what he gets for being slow... Oz has set up camp near the bleachers to wait in the meantime, since no one else is in the Olympic lap pool, by a small token of a miracle. No one should have to be subjected to Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dipshit.
The threat of imminent throttling has him diving for cover behind said bleachers, though...]
Wait—! You can't kill me before you even lose!!
[It's like he's intentionally trying to get himself murdered...?!]
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Oh, I'm not going to lose. Our contest becomes null and void when you're dead. YOUR FAMILY WILL NEVER HAVE CLOSURE.
[ Think fast, Oz, since Elliot's preemptively lobbed the other greasy sandal clutched in one hand his way. ]
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WHY ARE YOU SO ANGRY—!!!
[Like he doesn't know.
There's also the resounding gong-like noise of greasy shoe hitting metal as Oz scoots further behind the bleachers and then ducks so he's under them. On one hand, he's scrawny enough to fit pretty far under! On the other, he probably shouldn't be going underneath a collapsible metal structure when Elliot wants to decapitate him and take home his head as a trophy.]
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HOLD STILL! DO YOU WANT YOUR DEATH TO HURT OR SOMETHING? ARE YOU THAT MUCH OF A MASOCHIST?!
[ Too bad Elliot's actually of average stature and body frame for a boy his age, so he can't exactly squeeze beneath the bleachers, but he sure is ... rattling the metal ... he figures Oz can't stay wedged beneath there forever, so he vehemently stomps on one of the benches for good measure, making the whole structure vibrate wildly in the process. ]
If you come out now, your end will be virtually painless. Don't you want that?
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I'm definitely not coming out!! Not until you step back at least fifteen feet—! Twenty would be even better!
[His little accusing eyes peer out from between some bleacher slats, waiting for Elliot to listen to his completely reasonable demands and take his grim reaping ass back ten paces.]
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How are we going to have our match if you hide beneath the bleachers like a sniveling rat? I'm — obviously — joking — about — KILLING — YOU.
[ Erratically interspersing his words with KICKING BOUTS and TRAMPLING STOMPS, he squints at the loser encasing himself in his (very probable) metal tomb. ]
Didn't you want to swim? You choose to back out like a coward now, of all times?
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Oz is still hunkered down, either way. "I'm obviously joking about killing you" says Elliot angrily with an expression of true Nightrage, fruitlessly kicking the benches, exuding an air of murderous intent...]
I'm not going to back out, but I'm not going out there until you promise you'll at least save your attempted murder for after the race. After!!
[Don't try to get all sneaky and bash his head into the poolside when they're doing their turns, okay!!]
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Elliot deadpans, which would absolutely insouciant on any other person, but smears like a bad imprecation when he manages to stick one lanky arm between the slats of the metal grille and jab nebulously in Oz's direction.
Attempted? Don't make me laugh. If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead. Are you coming out or not?
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OH MY GOD THOUGH this is exactly why he's still under here?! This must be what characters in horror movies feel like when they're hiding from the serial killer that wants to gouge their eyes out, or perhaps choke them with their own hair bananas.]
Fine, fine—! [There goes Oz's wonderful self-preservation, at it again... But he will, at least, scoot up and try to ease his way back out from under this metal mess.
Of course, at the last second, he ends up standing up too quickly and bashes his head directly into the edge of the bleacher.]
Ouch—!
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Good thing Elliot isn't in an asphyxiating mood. He's always been more inclined to fall under the archetype of a one-off homicide maniac than a regular killer, and Oz is a peacock in a world full of partridges. He hasn't found anyone quite yet that resembles this squeaking rabbit of a boy. He'll use as many animal analogies until he finds that fabled mimicry in the meantime. ]
Get out here already, you're wasting time —
[ H A H A . . . he promptly devolves into laughing like, a millisecond after when Oz finds himself intimately betrayed by his safe haven. ]
P-pfffffffffft, you should see the look on your face! We can postpone the match if it'll be too much for you to handle.
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THAT SAID, he sure does look a little sulky and vaguely embarrassed as he comes out from around the bleachers at long last, hands pressed over the top of his head. Luckily he's not bleeding or anything, which really would be his luck, honestly...]
No way! I can still swim.
[This is going to turn into that episode of Another where the guy falls down the stairs and then dies in the ocean ages later and everyone thinks it was because of a boating accident BUT NO, IT WAS A BRAIN HEMORRHAGE ALL ALONG.
But yeah he sure is toeing his way to the pool edge.]
Are you ready?
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