Ash_Cruz: forum

Call it a grocery store, convenience store, liquor store, or deli -- whatever the title, it's a fixture of a neighborhood. The American bodega is an institution. Be it NOLA or New York, Seattle or San Francisco, you will find these corner stores scattered through the urban sprawl as gracious watering holes in the vast concrete food deserts. Whether it's a family-owned store, or a 7-Eleven, your average American has grown up with at least one. Torn is no different.

 

[address removed] is the unassuming name and location of one homely little bodega.

 

The sun-bleached green awning has the words "grocery", "liquor", "cigars", "deli" across its tattered front flap; half the letters are missing and are only legible by way of being discolored differently. The large front window is covered in faded signs showing the prices of cigarette, cigar, and liquor alongside milk, baby formula, and cough medicine; the interior of the shop is visible from about eye-height up between the taped over bullet holes and wrought iron bars. The lock on the glass and steel front door has been bent and busted from a break-in long ago, not that the owner minds much, considering the shop never closes.

 

Inside, there are five cramped aisles leading to the refrigerated shelves imbedded in the back wall. The fridge's compressor hums lowly behind glass doors with deteriorating rubber seals, its artificially warm lighting bringing a noisy brightness to the back corners of the store; shelved with drinks, non-alcoholic and low ABV alike. The far left of the store carrying the inedible odds and ends most people wouldn't think they'd need but find themselves searching for anywhere from three in the morning to three in the afternoon. Along the front window, hidden behind those old signs, are an overpriced ATM, freezers, newspaper racks, and more useful things. The five aisles are filled with food, mostly of the non-perishable variety.

 

To the right of the front door, the register sits in a cubby hole surrounded by impulse purchases, those last-minute things you reach for right as you get rung up. Behind it are the many cigars and cigarettes and liquor and lotto tickets, all under the owner's keen and watchful eye. Further in along the right-hand side is the little deli counter, with laminated pictures and prices of various simple sandwiches and foods that make for a decently filling breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the go. The flat top grill always keeps this corner of the shop hot on cold days, and unbearable during the hotter summer months; it's a wonder the cold line of veggies and toppings stays cool.

 

Most of all, Liam Davis sits behind that register on the same old wooden stool day in, day out. It is by his will that this little slice of peace maintains itself amid the violent chaos of Torn City. It is by his will that the shelves seem to always have exactly what someone needs (within reason), and the cheap food always feels more satisfying than the bougiest restaurants. During summer heatwaves, he'd sell ice cream for half off to the kids, and let them sit by the store fan and watch cartoons on his small CRT TV, keeping them cool and off the streets. This unassuming, balding old man cares for one of the few steadfast fixtures of normalcy in this crazy, crazy city. Robbers are dealt with swiftly by the people that care for this little place, and factions know not to mess with it.

 

[address removed] is home.

 

And it is open to you. Whoever you are, wherever you come from. Its doors are open.

 

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Welcome! This is meant to be a fantastically mundane slice of life centered around a volatile community's rock of Gibraltar. I will DM various goings on at the bodega, and keep a loose plot moving forward. This is all meant to be very casual, so please don't expect any big sweeping plot or world ending stakes. This is meant to be an intimate dissection of what the quieter moments mean to your characters and the world around them. And what they'd do to keep it. I said there wouldn't be world ending stakes, but that doesn't necessarily mean that things will be without conflict.

 

Please fill out the following before making your first IC post:

Name (and any nicknames)

Pronouns (gender notwithstanding)

Occupation(s) (legal or illegal)

Birthday (the setting is today)

Favorite Food(s) and Drink(s) (can be more than one!)

Smoker or Non-Smoker (if so, what do they smoke)

Description of Character (feel free to include art and links to further information)

Misc Notes (the little things and quirks and idiosyncrasies that make them who they are)

 

If you have any questions, please feel free to reach out to me via chat, message, or the OOC thread. Please don't clog this thread with questions. I'd like to keep this clear for IC writing only.

 

-Doodle

Hey all,

 

Long time writer/RPer, new to Torn. I usually write in short form or paragraph length, depending on what the scene calls for. Although, I am flexible and can write novella length (just don't expect quick replies). Here is a sample of my shortform writing:

 

Ash's teeth grind down onto the wood lip piece of the black&mild, and they stand up. They step toward Faye and stand over her. It looks like they're about to say something. Then they click their tongue and look away. a long exhale of smoke exiting their nostrils. "I never shoulda let you go," They look back to Faye, voice soft and eyes warm and filled with a love that never left.

 

I'd prefer to write about life in Torn, though can be persuaded for other topics.

 

If you're interested in RPing with me, please send a DM my way or respond here, and we can coordinate. I'm open to writing via forum posts, messages, or chat (though, chat is likely to be even shorter form).

 

GLHF

-Doodle

Thank you, Skellington! For now, I've written a response to Wood's Tavern. I'll think on what topic to DM on a new forum thread. Do you know if people around here favor any particular genre or themes?

 

-Doodle

Lee finishes punching in the prices, and pops open the till as he states the price, reinforcing that this is a cash only establishment.

 

At Sabrina's question, Lee looks to Matthew with a ponderous quirk of the brow. "I don't know," Lee says with a shrug, "That's his story to tell."

 

Once Sabrina hands over the cash, Lee takes it and gives her change before putting it away, shutting the till, and waiting painfully long for the receipt to print. It's an ancient thing, but it still works. Lee had it repaired last fifteen years ago, and it's been trucking along ever since... even if it does take forever to print. Frankly, writing it all down might be faster, but Lee's hands aren't what they used to be. If nothing else, the whirring and clicking machine fills the spaces between their words, providing some buffer between awkward pauses.

The companionable silence between Matthew and Lee is pushed aside as the doorbell rings, and someone new walks in. Lee welcomes her in with a nod and a smile. The crinkle of plastic bags and footfalls she trails from aisle to aisle tell Lee where she is in the store, so he doesn't bother getting up or peering down aisles to keep an eye on her. He'd always hated hovering merchants, anyways.

 

Only when she sets the basket down on the counter, does Lee heft himself to a stand and waddle his way behind the register; the almost-empty glass of whiskey is left on the table with Matthew, but not forgotten. His moustache upturns into a friendly smile as he starts ringing up the laundry list of food stuff and looks up at her with that congenial friendliness he's so well known for.

 

"Need anything else today, Miss Luchasy?" Lee asks with a casual kindness and well knowing keenness that belies his dopey demeanor. While she'd never spoken a word to him before today, Lee is the kind of socially conscious individual to know at least most Dons, Donnas, and associates. It's a shot in the dark, really, when he drops her name, but he does so with a confidence that speaks to years of calculated risks.

Hey y'all!!!

 

Sorry for dropping off the face of the earth. I'm back! And I'll be continuing the [address removed] thread. How has everyone been?

 

Have fun traveling, Tanarra! Hope you're doing well.

 

Sorry for leaving you hanging, Skelly!!! I'll get to replying soon.

 

-Doodle

"To new friends," Lee says with a soft smile in time with Matthew before taking a sip of scotch, "The world revolves around giving and taking, but I'm more of a sharing sort of guy myself." His chest rumbles with a chuckle, mustache upturned. "So, think nothing of owing, Matthew. Life is better when it's in good company, it's simple as that."

 

Yet, it's clear he's savvy in the realm of favors and social currency. As much as his sentiment is thoroughly egalitarian, the world just doesn't work like that. To declare something like that so simply in a matter-of-fact way, he would need to be in a very, very good social safety-net. Through his sweat stained dickies work shirt, and his patched cargo pants, he still has the bearing of someone who can command a room if he so chooses. But, he doesn't. His connections are hard won by meeting people where they are, and if not that, then halfway. He very much so understands that surviving in the world requires giving and taking, it just so happens that he's damn good at maintaining it to the point it turns into sharing -- a balance. In his ideal, the give and take should gestalt to become share.

 

That is, if you stay on his good side. For all his friendliness and warm brown eyes and mustachioed smiles, there is an ever-present sharpness in his eyes. He masks it well with dopey congeniality, but if you look hard enough, you can see the true strength of the man who can choose kindness in a city without it.

@Skelly!!

 

Sorry that took a while! The internet was out and I wasn't keen on writing anything on my phone.

"I got just the thing," Lee announces confidently as he hefts himself off of the stool and starts rummaging around underneath the register counter, "Go ahead and pick whatever candy and snack you want. I consider you mopping payment enough after that ordeal." He chuckles warmly, the sound of bottles and metal and plastic things bumping into each other as he mills through the dark shelves under the register, until he lets out a small 'aha!'. He finds two small low-ball glasses to go along with it.

 

He takes his time wiping the thick layer of dust from the bottle, as Matthew finishes cleaning up the mess. By the time he's done mopping up (and potentially getting snacks), Lee has set out a small foldable chair for Matthew. There is a collapsable table that hinges up from the side wall of the counter, facing the deli area -- it's a small space, just barely enough for two people to play cards, or chess, or share a drink. Lee waves Matthew over and waits for him to get settled before setting the bottle and glasses on the table with a big grin. "I've been saving this for a special occasion, and you strike me as the kind of man who can appreciate it. So, why not celebrate a new friendship, eh?"

 

Lagavulin 21-year Single Islay Malt, 1985 vintage. Bottled in 2007. Unopened.

 

He uncorks it with zero fanfare and pours two fingers worth for himself and Matthew.

Lee watches Matthew with that sort of familial concern reserved for uncles and aunts toward nieces and nephews. "Don't pop the stitches now right after you've thanked me," He warns with a chuckle, brown eyes twinkling with kind amusement, before addressing Matthew's questions, "Bucket and mop are in the back." He gestures toward the back right of the shop, where the food prep area sits cattycorner. Between the grill and the counter on the far wall, there is a door with splintered edges along the bottom and a tilted frame. Through that is a cramped storage area filled with nonperishable foodstuff, bits and bobs, and cleaning supplies. A sealed metal door to the left leads to behind the drink section, a refrigerated room where someone can restock the shelves and repair the cooling equipment, as well as store the excess perishables for the deli. A rickety door to the right leads to a single person bathroom -- a modest thing with the bare essentials. And, on the back wall is a door to the alleyway behind the shop, where the garbage bins are.

 

Lee wipes his hands free of blood on a rag he keeps in his back pocket, before beginning to put away the medical equipment, sure to place the newly opened box of gauze pads in with the toolbox of goods. "Why don't we get you some food first, too?" Lee offers without a second thought, eyes on putting everything away, including his reading glasses, "You lost a lot of blood, and food would be good for that." If Matthew is already walking toward the back of the shop, he simply raises his volume and calls after him nonchalantly.

"Oh, don't thank me yet, Matthew," Lee chuckles with a sassy sort of amusement that feels strangely youthful for someone like him, "The name's Lee." He speaks as he begins his work, dousing the wound with hydrogen peroxide to clean it, and wiping around the wound with clean gauze.

 

"My wife was better at sewing than me," He sighs wistfully, but keeps himself on track, breaking out the sewing kit and the curved needle, threading it after two attempts and putting a lighter to the needle to disinfect it, "So, don't thank me yet." Carefully, he puts in the first stich and draws it taught, pulling the edges of Matthew's cut together for that first most painful time. His big hands are shockingly delicate in their movements.

 

A mother and daughter walk into the store, doorbell chiming, not even batting an eye at the scene behind the counter. "Hey, Uncle Lee!" They chorus as the little girl, no older than seven, scampers on ahead to the fridges in the back to look for a soft drink, careful not to slip on the blood on the floor.

"Hey, girls," Lee looks down his nose through his reading glasses and greets the two without looking at them, focused on his work. The second stich. The mother and Lee exchange pleasantries. Third stich. She talks absent mindedly of family. Fourth stich. The little girl comes back with a sprite and can barely reach up to the counter to place a dollar and some change down on it. Fifth stich. They say their goodbyes with smiles on their faces, and Lee seeming chipper.

 

"Almst done," Lee says softly, tying off the fifth and final stich, "There." He cuts the leftover string with old bandage scissors and makes quick work of putting ointment onto the wound and taping the gauze pad over it.

"Well, that's no good," Lee remarks as he sucks air between his teeth and sets down his newspaper. With a small 'hup' to get off his stool, he waddles around the register and into the store. "Now, you wait right there," He casually instructs, not even bothering to look at Matt. It's clear he moves with some urgency, though the limitations of his physique are apparent.

 

He pulls a box of non-stick gauze pads off the shelf of the back left wall. "You know," He begins off-handedly as he goes back behind the counter and pulls out an old metal toolbox, "I was taking inventory of this just the other day, and you know what? I should have restocked it." He pops the two latches on the front and opens it to an array of first aid materials, but missing the exact size of gauze he pulled from the shelves, and what remains all looks like they're from a generation or two ago. "But, don't you worry, I got what you need," He babbles.

 

He gestures for Matthew to come around behind the register and chimes in a little more urgently, "Come on now, let me get a good look at you." The older man puts his reading glasses on, and starts filing through the kit, pulling out a roll mostly-used roll of medical tape, a small old metal sewing kit, and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and pulls open the box of new gauze pads, ready for Matthew.

Ash Cruz

     She/They

     Fighter (MMA, Boxing), Burglar, Dumpster Diver, Disposal, Private Security

     May 18th, 2005

     Bacon and eggs with hashbrowns, Chamorro food, Dr. Pepper, beer, Hot Cheetos

     Smoker (Black & Mild, weed)

 

Ash is a laid-back person who skates by day to day with a shit eating smile, a pocket full of whimsy, and a dash of common sense. Ash stands at 5'10", broad shouldered and muscular underneath her light-brown skin; an imperfect body clearly rendered fit by function over form. She keeps her thick black hair on the shorter side with a sloppy undercut, trimming it herself with some kitchen scissors and a hair clipper for the occasional buzz. Their eyes are a bright, cool grey, despite the warmth and fire behind their gaze. A scar breaks up one of her bushy brows, leaving the top lid of her left eye permanently a little lazy; the scar on her left jawline and neck seems to be an extension of this one. Her round nose is crooked with another scar on it, a much older and faded scar. Their left ear has two tears in it, seemingly from getting a piercing ripped out. Other small scars pepper her body from innumerable things she's long since forgotten about, with two or three memorable markings. See art HERE.

 

Ash's signature grin is a toothy, goofy, lopsided thing that has its own sort of dorky charm to it.

PC LIST

Matthew "Matt" Franco, "Skelly", "Skells"

     He/Him

     Chandler, etc

     August the 17th, 1978

     Club sandwich, ginger ale, and single malt scotch

     Non-Smoker

     Further Information about Matt

 

--------------------

 

Ash Cruz

     She/They

     Fighter (MMA, Boxing), Burglar, Dumpster Diver, Disposal, Private Security

     May 18th, 2005

     Bacon and eggs with hashbrowns, Chamorro food, Dr. Pepper, beer, Hot Cheetos

     Smoker (Black & Mild, weed)

     Further information about Ash

 

-------------------

 

Sabrina, "Rabies"

     She/Her

     Florist, Donna of the Luchasy Family

     January 23rd, 2000

     Pizza, sushi, teriyaki yakisoba, soda (root beer), mango juice

     Smoker (Weed)

     Further information about Sabrina

 

-------------------

 

NPC LIST

 

Liam Davis ("Lee")

     He/Him

     [address removed] bodega owner

     July 5th, 1971

     Chopped cheese, macaroni salad; rum, grape soda

     Non-Smoker

 

Lee is a portly 5'7", whose slight double chin is kept immaculately clean. However, his bushy moustache leaves much to be desired; a contingent of children call it his "lip caterpillar", and the fact he can make it wiggle and roll doesn't help the matter. He has graying brown hair on a balding head, and moderate skin that tans well enough to make on question his ethnicity. His ethnicity is something of a mystery, and his ambiguous looks only make it more mysterious. His hands are rough and arthritic from years of overwork. He waddles slightly with his walk, and struggles to kneel and bend down in his age and physical health. His smile is absolutely award winning, and his wink has a savoir faire that adds even more warmth to his homely demeanor.

 

Lee gets a little too invested in American football and has been known to be immensely distracted when the game is on. Lee also does this sort of shrug and whining exhale of a noise whenever something is either too much to explain, too little to deal with, he doesn't know what to say next, and frankly it's something of a filler sound in his speech.

 

--------------------

Call it a grocery store, convenience store, liquor store, or deli -- whatever the title, it's a fixture of a neighborhood. The American bodega is an institution. Be it NOLA or New York, Seattle or San Francisco, you will find these corner stores scattered through the urban sprawl as gracious watering holes in the vast concrete food deserts. Whether it's a family-owned store, or a 7-Eleven, your average American has grown up with at least one. Torn is no different.

 

[address removed] is the unassuming name and location of one homely little bodega.

 

The sun-bleached green awning has the words "grocery", "liquor", "cigars", "deli" across its tattered front flap; half the letters are missing and are only legible by way of being discolored differently. The large front window is covered in faded signs showing the prices of cigarette, cigar, and liquor alongside milk, baby formula, and cough medicine; the interior of the shop is visible from about eye-height up between the taped over bullet holes and wrought iron bars. The lock on the glass and steel front door has been bent and busted from a break-in long ago, not that the owner minds much, considering the shop never closes.

 

Inside, there are five cramped aisles leading to the refrigerated shelves imbedded in the back wall. The fridge's compressor hums lowly behind glass doors with deteriorating rubber seals, its artificially warm lighting bringing a noisy brightness to the back corners of the store; shelved with drinks, non-alcoholic and low ABV alike. The far left of the store carrying the inedible odds and ends most people wouldn't think they'd need but find themselves searching for anywhere from three in the morning to three in the afternoon. Along the front window, hidden behind those old signs, are an overpriced ATM, freezers, newspaper racks, and more useful things. The five aisles are filled with food, mostly of the non-perishable variety.

 

To the right of the front door, the register sits in a cubby hole surrounded by impulse purchases, those last-minute things you reach for right as you get rung up. Behind it are the many cigars and cigarettes and liquor and lotto tickets, all under the owner's keen and watchful eye. Further in along the right-hand side is the little deli counter, with laminated pictures and prices of various simple sandwiches and foods that make for a decently filling breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the go. The flat top grill always keeps this corner of the shop hot on cold days, and unbearable during the hotter summer months; it's a wonder the cold line of veggies and toppings stays cool.

 

Most of all, Liam Davis sits behind that register on the same old wooden stool day in, day out. It is by his will that this little slice of peace maintains itself amid the violent chaos of Torn City. It is by his will that the shelves seem to always have exactly what someone needs (within reason), and the cheap food always feels more satisfying than the bougiest restaurants. During summer heatwaves, he'd sell ice cream for half off to the kids, and let them sit by the store fan and watch cartoons on his small CRT TV, keeping them cool and off the streets. This unassuming, balding old man cares for one of the few steadfast fixtures of normalcy in this crazy, crazy city. Robbers are dealt with swiftly by the people that care for this little place, and factions know not to mess with it.

 

[address removed] is home.

 

And it is open to you. Whoever you are, wherever you come from. Its doors are open.

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Welcome! This is meant to be a fantastically mundane slice of life centered around a volatile community's rock of Gibraltar. I will DM various goings on at the bodega, and keep a loose plot moving forward. This is all meant to be very casual, so please don't expect any big sweeping plot or world ending stakes. This is meant to be an intimate dissection of what the quieter moments mean to your characters and the world around them. And what they'd do to keep it. I said there wouldn't be world ending stakes, but that doesn't necessarily mean that things will be without conflict.

 

Please fill out the following before making your first IC post:

Name (and any nicknames)

Pronouns (gender notwithstanding)

Occupation(s) (legal or illegal)

Birthday (the setting is today)

Favorite Food(s) and Drink(s) (can be more than one!)

Smoker or Non-Smoker (if so, what do they smoke)

Description of Character (feel free to include art and links to further information)

Misc Notes (the little things and quirks and idiosyncrasies that make them who they are)

 

If you have any questions, please feel free to reach out to me via chat, message, or the OOC thread. Please don't clog this thread with questions. I'd like to keep this clear for IC writing only.

 

-Doodle

A brow raises at the ancient bottle unearthed from the back of the cabinet. "Bless you," Ash says a little dumbly, watching Nona's sneeze turn to showmanship on getting the bottle out and pouring a shot glass. They simply nod at Nona's warning, eyeing the green liquid with more curiosity than trepidation. 

 

Their mouth opens for a reply to the lodging question when one of the regulars calls out to Nona, instead shutting their mouth and taking a sip of the mysterious drink. The liquor burns Ash's eyes and singes their nose hairs when raised to their lips. Just what the doctor ordered. With a content sigh, Ash slumps in the chair a little more, tension slowly leaving their limbs.

(( I f**king love Deadspace, and I really hope you're willing to continue this.))

 

name: Ash Cruz

age: 23

class: Engineer

description of your character: Ash is a laid-back person who skates by day to day with a shit eating smile, a pocket full of whimsy, and a dash of common sense. Ash stands at 5'10", broad shouldered and muscular underneath her light-brown skin; an imperfect body clearly rendered fit by function over form. She keeps her thick black hair on the shorter side with a sloppy undercut, trimming it herself with some kitchen scissors and a hair clipper for the occasional buzz. Her eyes are a bright, cool grey, despite the warmth and fire behind her gaze. A scar breaks up one of her bushy brows, leaving the top lid of her left eye permanently a little lazy; the scar on her left jawline and neck seems to be an extension of this one. Her round nose is crooked with another scar on it, a much older and faded scar. Her left ear has a tear in it, seemingly from getting a piercing ripped out. Other small scars pepper her body from innumerable things she's long since forgotten about, with two or three memorable markings. See art here.

Thanks for the medallion and advice, Tanarra! :)

 

I'll check out AkiraDawn's work. Might prove to be good inspiration! I guess I have a lot of reading to do to check out all those archives. I'm always down for some arson :P !

 

-Doodle

Name: Ash Cruz

Age: 23

Gender: Enby AFAB (she/they)

Personality: Quiet, steadfast, loyal

Skills: MMA, car and motorcycle mechanic, Motorcycle Club Enforcer

Appearance: Here

 

----------

 

The bullets didn't kill them. But, that look on Faye's face might as well have. Her hazel eyes wet with tears as she screamed. Her lips twisted in horror. The paramedics that arrived at the aftermath of the drive-by never told Faye what hospital Ash was sent to, never said what the bill was going to be, and pushed her away when she tried to get into the ambulance. Faye knew something was wrong, horribly, horribly wrong. Ash could see it in Faye's eyes, the recognition, the fear... And then the righteous fury.

 

Ash wakes with a start in the minimalist whitewashed cell. The bedsheets are textureless. The air, devoid of warmth. They place their hands over where their wounds should be, panic clenching their throat. She finds nothing, and the panic turns to practical concern. Slowly, as consciousness waxes, they take stock of their surroundings. This is no hospital bed. This is no hospital room. The mirror stares back at Ash, stalwart in its perfectly spotless finish. Their MC cut is still on their shoulders, but smells of antiseptic instead of leather. Their jeans are cleaner than they've ever been. Their boots, polished to a mirror shine.

 

"Oh, f**k this shit," Ash mumbles to themself as their breath quickens with anxiety, and they begin to do survival calculous. This is all too f**king weird. Then, she remembers Faye's face in those final moments. "Faye," Ash breathes, as if to declare to whatever put them here that there is but one goal on Ash's mind.

 

Ash steps out into the atrium, under the vaulted ceilings and blinding white artificial light.

Ash's brows stay knit with confusion, trying to process everything that Nona just said and did. They stand at the doorway like a lemon for longer than intended, before hesitantly making their way to the barstools. "Uh," Ash croaks, only now realizing this is the first time they'd spoken today, "Whatever good cheap bottom shelf shit ya got." They settle onto a stool, peeling off their quarter-full backpack of garbage sifted junk and setting it between their legs on the ground. The dank smell of a hot alleyway wafts about them, as persistent as a cockroach.

 

The youth in their face faded long time ago, even as someone in their early twenties, the way their eyes scan the room, and neutral expression is chiseled into their features. Ash's signature goofy, toothy, lopsided gin hasn't appeared since the third day of living in Torn, and it shows. There's that careful gentleness to the way they move that speaks to fatigue and soreness that goes deeper than muscle and bone.

Thank you, Skellington! For now, I've written a response to Wood's Tavern. I'll think on what topic to DM on a new forum thread. Do you know if people around here favor any particular genre or themes?

 

-Doodle

Torn City was meant to be an escape from the life of despondent poverty of their hometown. Meant to be the promise of a better life in the big city. Meant to be something, anything other than what the reality is for Ash and Faye.

 

Ash rubs their wedding ring with their thumb, cool gray eyes glazed over and boot heels scraping the piss and oil stained sidewalk. Faye's college courses are at least going well, even if to afford it both of them have resorted to a life of petty crime; Faye to bootlegging DVDs and skimming credit cards; Ash to burglary, disposal, shoplifting, and just plain old dumpster diving. The days have been long, with Faye's classes and studies, and Ash's painful rotation of rackets. And the nights even longer, with Faye's bootlegging and skimming, and Ash's burglaries. For all the hope to live together in peace, now the two hardly see each other partake for those fleeting moments before sleep takes hold.

 

With a threadbare jansport backpack slung over one shoulder, Ash is numb to the world. That distinctly acrid scent of hot garbage clings to Ash's old varsity jacket, jeans, and combat boots. Someone vomits in an alleyway. A handful of people high on fetty and anguish kick and scream at the city. Passing sirens paint the dark street red and blue, headlights blinding Ash for a moment. They make a face at the spots in their vision -- the closest thing to an expression they've had all day. As their vision clears, a curious sign comes into view.

Wood's Tavern.

Sure, why not? Ash opens the front door and steps inside.

 

((For simplicity's sake, please refer to the images posted on my account for what Ash looks like.))