10 | VISUAL | BRONTE BEACH | AND THOUGH YOU'RE DEAD AND GONE BELIEVE ME, YOUR MEMORY WILL CARRY ON.
Kobra Kid and Party Poison are on the beach, wind whipping away at long black cloaks that look like they were once bits of felt for instruments and blankets from the Dodgy Jammer. Party fiddles with the tablet before setting it down on the sand, propped up against something, and a leather glove gives Kobra Kid the 'okay' sign.
The lighting is dim along the shore at night, but it's obvious that the two have a somewhat ramshackle facepaint. It's ash, streaked on their mouths and eyes, looking like skulls. Party wipes sand off of his hand after adjusting the tablet and speaks.
"So, if you guys are near Bronte Beach, you're gonna see this." He motions to the candles. There's a lot scattered on the ground, all burning brightly. 50, maybe 60 of various sizes and colours. He glances back over at Kobra, and then looks back at the tablet.
"We're from different worlds. Zone 4, Outer Zone, Earth, Space, whatever. I don't trust you guys as far as I can throw you and I'm sure it's vice-versa, but we have one thing in common."
He waves his hands in the direction of Kobra and the candles. "Come if you want. This time of year is for remembering. For honouring the dead. The missing." His voice is a little louder, now:
"For Jet Star, the best medic you could ever have. For Fun Ghoul, the techie who could always make you grin. For motherfucking Grace, and her tiny head but her big heart. For Dr. Death-Defying and his wisdom, for Show Pony and his cautious optimism."
He licks his lips.
"And for everyone you guys miss home, or who have gone from Taxon. Honour the dead. Honour the dead, honour the dead, honour the fucking dead."
It's a silent invitation to come if you want, or talk if you want to. It's a small, tiny sliver of whatever traditions were left in the dusty radiation of California, 2019. A silent olive branch from the morally dubious terrorists.
[OOC: Backtagged to November 1st. Join in if you want! Both Kobra Kid and Party will be tagging you, since they're both there.]
The lighting is dim along the shore at night, but it's obvious that the two have a somewhat ramshackle facepaint. It's ash, streaked on their mouths and eyes, looking like skulls. Party wipes sand off of his hand after adjusting the tablet and speaks.
"So, if you guys are near Bronte Beach, you're gonna see this." He motions to the candles. There's a lot scattered on the ground, all burning brightly. 50, maybe 60 of various sizes and colours. He glances back over at Kobra, and then looks back at the tablet.
"We're from different worlds. Zone 4, Outer Zone, Earth, Space, whatever. I don't trust you guys as far as I can throw you and I'm sure it's vice-versa, but we have one thing in common."
He waves his hands in the direction of Kobra and the candles. "Come if you want. This time of year is for remembering. For honouring the dead. The missing." His voice is a little louder, now:
"For Jet Star, the best medic you could ever have. For Fun Ghoul, the techie who could always make you grin. For motherfucking Grace, and her tiny head but her big heart. For Dr. Death-Defying and his wisdom, for Show Pony and his cautious optimism."
He licks his lips.
"And for everyone you guys miss home, or who have gone from Taxon. Honour the dead. Honour the dead, honour the dead, honour the fucking dead."
It's a silent invitation to come if you want, or talk if you want to. It's a small, tiny sliver of whatever traditions were left in the dusty radiation of California, 2019. A silent olive branch from the morally dubious terrorists.
[OOC: Backtagged to November 1st. Join in if you want! Both Kobra Kid and Party will be tagging you, since they're both there.]