#messwrites

Pandora was...beige. Beige in the sense that it was physically beige, not as in ‘boring’; frankly he didn’t think he’d ever hear the words ‘boring’ and ‘Pandora’ used in the same sentence without copious quantities of sarcasm being utilised.

Still, that didn’t mean that when Axton was rambling around, shooting skags just outside of Lynchwood station and looting their corpses for the cash they inexplicably seemed to carry, y’know, just for funsies, that he expecting to turn around and be confronted by the walking, talking, weirdly corporeal ghost of an evil dictator he’d help murder and whose aforementioned corpse he’d subsequently teabagged?!?!?? ?!????!?!!!!!!

So, Axton did the only logical thing that a fierce and manly vault hunter could do in such a situation.

You’ve gone and done it this time, Strange. You’ve hopped to Oshtur knows how many times and dimensions, and now you’ve gone one too far. Stuck in a city, time, and dimension you’ve never touched before, out of energy, and out of ideas.

Still. At least he’d been able to set up an impromptu shop down in an abandoned conductor’s office in a derelict station off the old rail lines. The city - Gotham - was akin to New York, but had considerably darker things lurking underneath it than even Hell’s Kitchen had to offer. He’d been picking up magical odds and ends to try and map out just how far down the rabbit hole he’d gotten, keeping his head low and out of the skirmishes that the city seemed to be rife with. He had a ley map spread out over the old coffee table he’d been using as his desk, trying to see if there were any Sanctums like his own that he might be able to tap into.

But something disturbed the candles he had lit around the room, which had been less for magical purposes than not wanting to raise any questions by sparking energy from an otherwise dead grid. Yet one thing about an open flame was that it was a subtly good indicator of when energies or drafts shifted in a room. He glanced up toward the door, struck dumb for a moment at realizing he wasn’t alone.

“How did you know I was down here?” he asked.

Maybe it was too many incidents with being manhandled in his work - too often by tentacles but that was a different matter - but getting handcuffed and heaved in the clink was one of his least favorite life experiences. It wasn’t necessarily worse than dying. He’d been there and done that too. But it was its own version of hell, especially when whoever did the handcuffing and incarcerating were clever about it. He had only a vague sense of how long he’d been holed up down in the basement cell they’d been keeping him in given there were no windows. The brick and mortar walls were old and didn’t display any signs of updating, so he knew at least that whoever had gotten the drop on him weren’t necessarily a part of a better-funded organization that could afford more modern holding cells.

More disturbing than them not being the best-funded kidnappers, however, was the strength of their magical wards. There weren’t many cells on Earth that could keep a lid on him, but this one, with the help of the beset silver manacles they’d kept him tied up with, had been doing a frighteningly good job. He didn’t like to think that meant they knew who he was or what he was capable of, and he liked even less to mull over the fact that no one who knew who he was knew where he was or would care to look for him.

He’d been trying to push the limits of the manacles and the room’s wards when the door was burst in, flying off its wrought iron hinges and onto the floor. Though the room wasn’t large, he’d still been standing far enough away that he hadn’t been at risk for ending up underneath it. Having dealt with little more light than a fading bare bulb had allowed, he put a hand up against the glare of the light from the hallway as his eyes adjusted. “Please tell me you’re the cavalry.”

Lalalalalalalala, patrol duty, la la la la la, being on patrol.

    Wash was indeed, patrolling, because patrolling was a good idea; it prevented the death.

        This was a very serious situation, made all the more serious by the simple fact that that ship hadn’t been there the last time he’d patrolled the area, and the blockade on Chorus was still in place. Wash raised his gun, ready and waiting to radio it in. Why he hadn’t yet was a matter of...gut. He needed more intel.

Slowly, he traced the perimeter of the area, keeping an eye on the ship.

Send “$” for an ACCIDENTAL text.

Send “ツ” for an EXCITED text. | i love this meme y’all. 

pet peeve: rp police

that’s what i’m going to call them anyways. basically people who are all snobby and think they can tell you what you can rp, what you can’t rp. they try to police you and your muses. like this is your blog, do what you want? I believe you can stray as far from canon as you want, i personally like to be very close to the canon of my characters, that’s just what i have always done, that’s what i like to do, but if someone wants to do the opposite that go ahead. same with ships and all that stuff. like if people think what i do is stupid i just say “kay thanks for your time” like it’s got nothing to do with you, your opinion on a plot i have with someone else is not your business?

* VIOLENT ACTION STARTERS / @messwrites​ / accepting !!!

010. — Headbutt my muse.

          PAIN like this was foreign, the black panther realizes, staggering back onto his knees. vibranium armor didn’t seem enough to stop the other’s blow.