sixthiterationlogs | I wanted to stay home but I went running running running running from the troubles

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I wanted to stay home but I went running running running running from the troubles

WHO: Valkyrie
WHERE: The Bunker, around the village
WHEN: End of November
OPEN TO: Bruce Banner (Bunker), OTA (Village)
WARNINGS: Possible mentions of alcohol abuse, past implied slavery, and PTSD.

Arrival in the Bunker

To wake with swirling, swimming vision, everything distorted in front of her, is nothing new. Many are the nights where the previous night's inebriation simply bleeds over into the morning, one day into another. But the tube? The tube's a decidedly new development.

Groggily she draws a hand up to push at the glass. Then knock against it a few times, the noise enough to discourage further taps with a groan and a squint. Okay, no, hangover is not liking that at all. Though this didn't feel quite like the average hangover.

Still might puke, though.

There's a shape moving past the glass that she can't quite make out, and she tries to lean forward enough to see who it is. One of the Grandmaster's goons? A gladiator? Is this the new pit? She'd worked her way out of that mess already, or so she'd thought. Or was this some scavenger crew who thought to sell her out?

"Hey!" And that initial shout reminds her with a grimace that yes, still in glass tube. Still only really hurting her own ears here. Ow...

Arrival in the Village

Freed of the tube, she's free to marvel at how much...really hasn't changed at all. She's stuck here, instead of there, with less food and booze but more trees and greenery, and fewer tasers or holding cells. Maybe they like their 'prisoners with jobs' free-range, here.

Still, for a new arrival, she doesn't look that fussed by the change of scenery. Anyone look at her could tell she was new, a well-muscled but slight woman with messy dark hair bound back out of her face. Her expression? Says she's already about a thousand percent done with the shake-up and ready to move on. This gaping uncertainty under her feet is a little less than ideal, but she's handled herself in worse.

Clad in telltale red scrubs and carrying her complimentary pack on her shoulder, she's making her rounds, from building to building. Taking in the landscape, such as it is. There's a vague tally to keep, places to sleep, people she'd be expected to work with to do...whatever needed doing. Because of course they're going to ask her to do things, that's not a question, really.

So the sooner she finds out what she needs to do to get secure and get out of her own mind? The happier she'll be.

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Sam's vodka still looked like something out of a Rube Goldberg drawing. There were pipes and tubes and glass jars and jugs. Everything was rigged up by string over burners and counter tops. The whole thing had to be disassembled and reassembled every time she used it, or no one would be able to use half of the kitchen. As a whole, Sam tried not to be that person. A dick. Admittedly, it was a habit that came to her naturally in most arenas of her life. But she had surprisingly excellent kitchen etiquette.

Especially for someone who couldn't eat.

She missed eating, as of late. Comfort food, really. A bag of Cheetos or a nice, hot bowl of her mother's Matzo-ball soup. Anything to clear her mind. She was working on her second batch of the day, her eyes following the glittery, shining bubbles as they traveled along her patchwork distillery. There was an art and a beauty to it, but Sam couldn't fully appreciate it today.

It was just that she was so fucking distracted. Stupid Danny. Stupid hot springs.

In the most affectionate way, of course.

She'd been pointed towards the Inn for food, though warned alcohol was in short supply. Whoever told her that was clearly a liar, however, because that right there? That's distilling. And she knows it at a glance.

The clouds might well have parted, and the birds started singing, and it wouldn't have seemed out of place at all, even indoors. Smirking slightly, she makes her way closer to the woman hard at work. Clop-clop, goes the steady stride of those boot heels.

"So you're the one to talk to about stocking up," she observes, when well within conversational distance. "They were trying to tell me no one here was selling."

The fact that their generous Overlords had a penchant for selecting underwear models as test subjects had gone from funny to annoying back to funny again. So when Sam looked up at the woman--clearly a n00b, she practically had that new-arrival smell--she lifted the corner of her mouth, just slightly. Another really, really, ridiculously good-looking person.

Go figure.

"I'm not sure 'selling' is the word," she replied. American accent, with a bland, Midwestern twang. She brushed a few of her synthetic curls back, over her shoulder. "Although, in all fairness, the word 'alcohol' barely applies to this shit. It's more like...lighter fluid. Or something you use to clean granny's silverware."

She was wearing her combat boots today. And, in defiance of the weather, a tight, black shirt with sleeves made of fishnet mesh. She crossed over to one of the finished batches, grabbing a bottle of murky, clear liquid. "I take it you have a need?"

Sam's assessment was a flattering one, considering that the woman looked a disheveled mess and in no mood to walk anyone's catwalk, unless it meant possibly cold-clocking whoever stood at the end of it. Not that she'd have minded the positive review, oh no, considering Sam looked far more model-like and put together than she ever could on her best day.

A good looking woman and a bottle of booze. The day was looking better, already.

"I've always got a need. Question is what your need is, for it." Her smile quirks a little wider. If 'selling' isn't the word, then it's barter. Got to be. No one's giving anything away, not for the sheer kindness of it. That's not how it works.

"So. What'll you take for it?"

"You're new," Sam said. It wasn't a question. When you were always on the outside, looking in, you got really good at paying attention to what--or who--you were looking at. "First one's on the house."

She offered the model the bottle.

"Just don't burn a hole in your throat or something."

It had taken Sam a long fucking time to get used to the kibbutz-like nature of the clown rodeo they called home. She was used to barter systems. Boons were more or less the sole currency of the Kindred. But the idea of just...doing shit for one another? That had taken a lot of practice and patience.

Sam wasn't the one to explain it to new arrivals. She was actually fucking terrible with the n00bs, usually.

Sam was being too hard on herself. This was exactly what this new person on the block needed. As evidenced by the way she immediately tossed the bottle back and began to chug.

Of course, it would make sense that without all the other properties of being an Asgardian, her fortitude for drinking wouldn't necessarily be where it had been. But there's nary a flinch as she drinks the burning liquid back, gulp after gulp, without stopping until it's completely drained. Only then does she lower her arm, messily swiping the back of her hand across her mouth to catch any excess.

"Not bad. Got a bite to it."

That's an understatement, of course, but she seems content enough with the immediate settling tingle in her system. Oh yeah. Yeah, that's better.

Sam had been raised that out-and-out staring at someone was rude. Mileage on that lesson varied. But there wasn't so much as a blink this time. Her lips parted slightly in surprise, even. She'd seen more than a handful of the other inmates put on a brave face, trying to toss back shots of her poison. Shots. But the whole fucking bottle? That was...that was seriously something else.

She tried to figure out if she'd had any reason to fill a bottle with water.

But no. Not really.

"Damn," she said, remembering to blink after a moment. "Are you made of titanium?"

Well. It wasn't unheard of. Peeta's leg and Bucky's arm and all.

She cleared her throat. "You've got a strong stomach." And throat. And tongue. And lips.

Shit.

She held up a finger for a moment, holding off further questions. Then, moments later, a belch -- and what was probably fumes from the stuff in her belly -- escaped that slight frame.

Then that hand lowered, tightening into a fist that tapped her chest twice. Only then did she go lax, with an expression that said all was right with the world. Finally.

"When everything burns, nothing does," she advised cryptically, before turning about to find a seat and promptly reclining into it. Whew. This was running to her system a lot quicker than she was used to.

An unexpected bonus, really.

"Deep," Sam said.

Pithy, really. If she had the materials, she'd needlepoint it, or something. A shame they didn't have a silk screening press. It would make a fabulous tee shirt.

What the fuck had Sam just enabled?

She smiled slightly, shaking her head. "We'll, I'd welcome you to the clown rodeo, but that just seems kinda evil. I'm Sam, by the way. Known in certain circles as 'The Blue Bitch' or the 'Galatea of the Ordo Dracul.'"

She'd never actually shared her Ordo title with anyone before. In part, because it was hilariously ridiculous, and in part because...why bother?

Who cared?

Yeah, her eyes had glazed over the second the titles came out. Or it might be the liquor. Who knew?

Either way, with introductions underway, she languidly lifted a finger to point towards herself. "Scrapper-142. Or, I guess I was a Scrapper. Not sure what I am now." She shrugs. "Still answer to it, so. It's what I've got."

More specifically, what she's offering up. No titles, no rank, none of those trappings that didn't matter anymore, anyway. Once you're the last of something, it doesn't really exist outside of you. This place doesn't need a Valkyrie.

But it might have use for a Scrapper.

Something inside of Sam twisted and squirmed. Like she'd swallowed a snake. Under normal circumstances, she would have cracked a joke about a name like 'Scrapper.' Nothing was sacred--except for the fact that Greedo shot first. Sam joked about everything.

It was the number that made her feel the bottom drop out.

She'd just been a number. Experiment 88. Not something she cherished. It set her teeth on edge, made her want to punch something or someone, just thinking about it.

Absently, she ground the knuckles of her right hand into the heel of her left palm.

It was impossible for her to accept a number for a name. Whether she was trying to be accommodating or not. Too much history. Too much pain.

"Scrapper," she said, bobbing her head slightly. "Where are you from, Scrapper?"

She can see Sam twitch a little, but you don't go asking a girl what her damage is on the first date. So, she very helpfully pretends not to notice it at all, allowing her head to fall slightly to one side as that prevalent warmth from the drink creeps upwards.

"Another trash heap with no hope of escape. Kind of like this place, but less green, and more...trash." Her nose wrinkles one hand lifts, waving dismissively. "Except apparently I escaped that, and wound up somewhere else where there's supposedly no escape, so."

Of course, Sakaar wasn't where she was from, either. Just where she'd been last. Eh. Details.

There was, literally, no response for that. So Sam fell back on her favorite standby. "Well," she said, "that blows."

While she was an artist with a beaker or with a brush, Sam's language skills tended to fail to impress. But she figured the sentiment was there. And Scrapper--she'd come up with some kind of nickname for her later...Scrappy? Scrappy Doo?--didn't seem like the weepy type, anyway.

Worked for her.

"I'm from Los Angeles," she said with a shrug, turning down the heat on her mash, on the stove. "Which is kind of like a trash heap without an escape. Except we had pay-per-view."

"Looks like you've worked out the essentials, though," she remarks with a cock of her head and a pointed finger towards the still. "How long'd it take you to set that up?"

Thank the stars someone had had the ingenuity to already. If she'd had to try and wrestle one together herself, the results would not have been pretty. An engineer she wasn't, much more adapt at breaking things than putting them back together.

In all sense of the phrase.

Sam glanced over at the still. The thing was an ugly piece of shit, but she couldn't help feeling a little proud of herself. She wasn't much of a chemist. She'd only dabbled a little in college, and again with the Ordo. But all things considered, it had turned out pretty fucking amazing.

If she said so herself.

"About a month," she said. "Took a little longer to nail down the proportions. I'm thinking about experimenting with flavors, at some point. But finding natural flavorings is fucking impossible this time of year."

Flavorings? She supposes someone's got to want to drink it for the taste. She's personally not of a mind to care, but you know, it's nice that Sam wants to try. Sam seems nice, which normally sets off alarm bells in her head. No one's nice without reason for it.

It's not like she won't figure it out, hanging around her as long as she intends to.

"Who taught you? Don't suppose you come from a family of brewers." There's a quirk of her lips that says she's joking, she's not expecting a life story here. Just chatting while the buzz settles into her bones.

She let out a soft snort. In a way--a very sick, twisted way--she was from a family of brewers. Her biological parents liked to cook up all different kinds of monsters, twisting and extracting DNA and body parts, leaving a lot of people dead in the wake of it all.

Not something she cared to own up to, of course. But the irony was lovely.

"No," she said, hopping up onto one of the counters, crossing her ankles. "I'm a scientist." A pause. "Was a scientist, anyway. Biologist. Specialty in genetics and heredity. But chemistry isn't that hard. I just figured it out." She shrugged. "There's no shortage of time on your hands, around here."

"Yeah, I bet. Surviving gets pretty dull after a while."

It's the mundane things that keep you living, after all. Or at least breathing. There's nothing glorious about gathering food or supplies, scraping together what kind of a life you can manage out of the trash. Or the wilderness, she supposes.

"What d'you get for distilling?" And she nods towards the contraption. If she's making the booze? The least she can do is help her maintaining her supply. Win-win, honestly.

A thin smirk painted itself across Sam's lips. "Mostly good will," she admitted. "I'm fucking unpopular and, as I've been told, both obnoxious and disliked." Admittedly, no one in the clown rodeo had out and out said it. But plenty of people had back home. And Sam didn't think she'd changed all that much. She knew what she was. And she knew just how grating she could be.

Not to mention...

She grimaced a little. "Also, I'm a vampire. So I guess this is a way of proving I'm not some kind of horrible mass murderer. You know? Here to help. Try the booze. Shit like that."

Obnoxious and disliked? The description pulled a smirk onto her own face, though not with any mirth at Sam's current status among the other stranded. No. It was just all too familiar. No one much liked her where she'd come from either.

"Well you're alright where I'm standing. Or, sitting," she corrected, with a gesture at her very comfortable position right where she was. "Everyone's some kind of awful. You're definitely not the worst I've ever met."

"Everyone's some kind of awful," Sam repeated. She played with the words in her mouth, mulling them over before deciding that, yes, she liked them. It was hashtag levels of accurate. And she nodded. "That would make a pretty fucking fantastic tattoo. Or a bumper sticker."

Or needle point. For the irony.

She shrugged. "Well, thanks, at any rate. I mean, for what it's worth, my particular brand of awful relates to both my personality and my diet. But I'm harmless. So there's that."

Hashtags and bumper stickers would mean little to an Asgardian, but she shrugs in agreement. Probably, yeah. Why not?

"Wouldn't matter either way, honestly." Even if she was dangerous -- and she might very well be, and just saying otherwise to take her off guard -- it was doubtful it would make a difference. "Dangerous people need to survive as much as harmless ones."

Which meant a certain amount of cooperation needed to occur, regardless.

This was a woman who'd make a halfway decent Kindred. If such a thing existed, which was way more philosophical than Sam wanted to get at the moment.

"Which are you?" she asked instead, almost in spite of herself, because it seemed like something Han Solo would do. "Harmless or dangerous?"

"Which sort do I seem like to you?" And there's a flash of a grin there before she leans forward, hands clasped in front of her. Oooh, but that buzz was settling in nicely. Now there was an almost playful edge to her stance, eyeing Sam up and down.

"So, what needs to be done in order to keep you in the business of making that?" And the miracle machine in front of her gets a jab of her index finger. Might as well make life a little easier for the one scratching your back, right?

Dangerous. But Sam couldn't say why. Just a feeling. An instinct, like sensing another Kindred's Predator. Heat rising off of the boiling asphalt.

Not that she was entirely wary. That happened when you had little to lose.

She made a vague gesture to the stack of potatoes in the corner. "Raw supplies. Potatoes. Water. Yeast, which is the hardest to maintain. And just keeping the equipment from collapsing. It's not exactly the most shatterproof glass in the multiverse."

Some lessons were hard-learned. And really fucking gross.

Village - Inn

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