Post by Deleted on Dec 6, 2017 0:17:59 GMT -5
first, some food for thought.
this is an advanced roleplay; I'm looking for an advanced partner. if you don't think you can match my post lengths (ranging from 600-800 + word replies, on average), I don't think we'd make much of a good pair for each other.
activity doesn't much matter to me. as long as you can provide 1-2 responses per week, at the minimum, you're golden.
the idea for this roleplay isn't my own. it's directly inspired by the Black Mirror episode 'San Junipero,' which, if you haven't seen, I suggest you either watch (on Netflix, but try your luck on YouTube too) or look up a plot summary on Wikipedia. otherwise, go into this blindly. could be fun. follow my lead and context clues, maybe.
this is also a romance roleplay. the character I'm using is strictly homosexual, so... keep that in mind with your character.
now, with all that being said..
1983.
time: roughly eight o'clock in the evening.
A car cruises into civilization, city lights and streets with sidewalks crowded with pedestrians, from desolation. The driver has sunglasses on, despite the darkness of the young night around him, a cigarette hanging limply from one hand draped out of the window. His other hand, fingers etched with tiny tattoos, raps impatiently on the steering wheel as he waits for a group of galavanting youths ahead of him take their time crossing the sidewalk in front of him. His jaw is set, posture rigid, even if he slouches in his seat. The grip on the cigarette tightens, pushing more glowing orange out of the tip of it.
They need to hurry up, he thinks. I've only got four more hours here. As soon as the last stragglers make their way to the other curb, he presses his foot down hard on the gas pedal--the air around him fills with the unmistakable harsh screech of tires against pavement as his nose fills with smoke of burning rubber. Then he's off out of the intersection once more like a rocket, lurching off into the night with determination, as if that alone and a fast car would slow the passage of time.
He looks forward to these reveries in San Junipero more than anything else. His real body is a failure, a bleeding mess held together by duct tape and string. Every week, he dutifully waits until his five hours weekly limit becomes redeemable again; he endures being told what to do, being pushed and prodded at by the myriad doctors his wealth can supply. Every day is a new pill, a new promise, each proven to be a false one: "no, trust us, these pills are going to work," they all claim with steel eyes and voices that soothe like honey, yet he ends up hospitalized on the regular when a sniffle or sneeze, barely even a common cold, turns into pneumonia. A scratch from too-long nails becomes a staph infection. Molehills routinely become mountains, each one harder to climb than the last.
His body wants to give up. Jasper knows it, he feels it in his joints and how stubbornly, like his mind, it fights the change others try to impose on it. But he also knows that this virus won its battle a long, long time ago, and that whatever they're doing now only prolongs the inevitable, in his opinion. He's wanted to go--'pass on,' as the liberals prefer to call it--for some time now. Yet, he's kept on Earth against his own will, truthfully, because someone believes him to be an important link to the past. A relic, a god--a dying one. But who cares what the god himself thinks? (Does he even think himself a god, or simply as an ongoing series of aches and pains?)
Jasper Owen was the face, the name, the voice of rock n' roll; his hands, his body, its vessel, its instruments to make magic. And, truly, he loved what he did in the good ol' days. When things got hard, he found himself retreating to memories of especially exhilarating concerts. He could hear them by the tens of thousands chanting his name, feel the hands of strangers that loved him more than they loved themselves holding his body, carrying him to share him with other strangers. It was unlike anything else he'd ever experienced. But those concerts were rare to begin with, and only became fewer and further between as his career persisted. But now, there are no good days left. There is only San Junipero, five hours a week.
What has he come to? But he doesn't think of that now, no--he's here to have a little fun for once.
The blond screeches to an abrupt halt in front of a bar and club type of venue. Neon lights flank the windows, beckoning warmly, artificially, and a steady stream of people make their way in through the front door of the place; a slower trickle leave. It's a healthy balance, Jasper decides, and twists the keys, pulls them out of the ignition, and steps out of the car.
Immediately, he is met by a youth in a uniform, clearly some kind of waiting staff of this establishment. "Excuse me, sir," he begins in a pitched tone, "You can't just--" his gaze wanders to the car haphazardly pulled in front, half of it teetering on the sidewalk. "I'm sorry, you cannot leave your car there. We don't have valet, you need to park it elsewhere."
He sighs, raises an eyebrow. Then he removes his sunglasses and folds them over the collar of his shirt, letting them rest right between his collar bones. Jasper meets the youth's eye. "Now you do," he tells him, and pushes his keys into his hands, which suddenly become outstretched and receptive before him. "Leave 'er out back, would ya?"
He is precisely aware of the impression he makes on people. This encounter, unexpected as it is, has shocked this youth to the core. He gazes at the man, only slightly older than him, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, at the very oldest, with clearly restrained awe. This is the decade he reached his peak in, after all; on the drive here, Jasper found himself staring himself--well, his airbrushed self--dead in the eyes in record store windows and the occasional freeway billboard on the rare occasions that he was stopped. Surely, he's going to be asked to sign things inside that bar (to which he always wonders why people ask, since it's not like they can take their shot glasses or t-shirts back with them). Evenings are rarely peaceful, but the sunglasses help dispel some of that attention.
Jasper watches with his guarded, sharp eyes as the waiter's expression shifts to one of skepticism, which, again, is something he's grown to be aware of. Comments like "I thought you'd be taller," or "I didn't realize you were that--how do I put it.. thin?" have become routine. The television is known to add ten pounds to people, and camera men have a certain way of making every man into an Adonis with their skill, but in reality, he's just human. He's an inch or two under six feet tall, with hunched shoulders and a slim, perhaps edging on just uncomfortably thin, build, and fading blond hair. What separates him from the average the most is his abundance of tattoos (on his hands, and chest, mostly, hidden from the average onlooker) and those eyes. Bitter, cold, also fading--unforgettable. They only added to his captivating stage aura.
The waiter swallows. ".. Yes, sir," he finally answers with some reluctance. The blond smirks, knowing he probably earned this youth a stern word from his supervisor about special favors for customers--and he'd insist, of course, that their humble bar had been visited by an actual celebrity, but who would believe him? The place is big, and crowded, and it was Jasper's intention to blend in with the crowd as best he could. Despite his fame, he's surprisingly good at keeping his head low when he wants to.
So he merges his way into the stream of entering people, is pushed against the door threshold, and finally, with some resistance, he's inside the place. After scanning over the dance floor and layout of the place for a couple short moments, he makes a beeline to the first open stool at the bar. "A rum and Coke, please," he murmurs across the tabletop to a bartender with his ear cocked towards him, and he sets down his glass and towel to get to working on his order. Jasper settles comfortably into the seat. If he can just get buzzed enough, this won't be too bad a time.
this is an advanced roleplay; I'm looking for an advanced partner. if you don't think you can match my post lengths (ranging from 600-800 + word replies, on average), I don't think we'd make much of a good pair for each other.
activity doesn't much matter to me. as long as you can provide 1-2 responses per week, at the minimum, you're golden.
the idea for this roleplay isn't my own. it's directly inspired by the Black Mirror episode 'San Junipero,' which, if you haven't seen, I suggest you either watch (on Netflix, but try your luck on YouTube too) or look up a plot summary on Wikipedia. otherwise, go into this blindly. could be fun. follow my lead and context clues, maybe.
this is also a romance roleplay. the character I'm using is strictly homosexual, so... keep that in mind with your character.
now, with all that being said..
1983.
time: roughly eight o'clock in the evening.
A car cruises into civilization, city lights and streets with sidewalks crowded with pedestrians, from desolation. The driver has sunglasses on, despite the darkness of the young night around him, a cigarette hanging limply from one hand draped out of the window. His other hand, fingers etched with tiny tattoos, raps impatiently on the steering wheel as he waits for a group of galavanting youths ahead of him take their time crossing the sidewalk in front of him. His jaw is set, posture rigid, even if he slouches in his seat. The grip on the cigarette tightens, pushing more glowing orange out of the tip of it.
They need to hurry up, he thinks. I've only got four more hours here. As soon as the last stragglers make their way to the other curb, he presses his foot down hard on the gas pedal--the air around him fills with the unmistakable harsh screech of tires against pavement as his nose fills with smoke of burning rubber. Then he's off out of the intersection once more like a rocket, lurching off into the night with determination, as if that alone and a fast car would slow the passage of time.
He looks forward to these reveries in San Junipero more than anything else. His real body is a failure, a bleeding mess held together by duct tape and string. Every week, he dutifully waits until his five hours weekly limit becomes redeemable again; he endures being told what to do, being pushed and prodded at by the myriad doctors his wealth can supply. Every day is a new pill, a new promise, each proven to be a false one: "no, trust us, these pills are going to work," they all claim with steel eyes and voices that soothe like honey, yet he ends up hospitalized on the regular when a sniffle or sneeze, barely even a common cold, turns into pneumonia. A scratch from too-long nails becomes a staph infection. Molehills routinely become mountains, each one harder to climb than the last.
His body wants to give up. Jasper knows it, he feels it in his joints and how stubbornly, like his mind, it fights the change others try to impose on it. But he also knows that this virus won its battle a long, long time ago, and that whatever they're doing now only prolongs the inevitable, in his opinion. He's wanted to go--'pass on,' as the liberals prefer to call it--for some time now. Yet, he's kept on Earth against his own will, truthfully, because someone believes him to be an important link to the past. A relic, a god--a dying one. But who cares what the god himself thinks? (Does he even think himself a god, or simply as an ongoing series of aches and pains?)
Jasper Owen was the face, the name, the voice of rock n' roll; his hands, his body, its vessel, its instruments to make magic. And, truly, he loved what he did in the good ol' days. When things got hard, he found himself retreating to memories of especially exhilarating concerts. He could hear them by the tens of thousands chanting his name, feel the hands of strangers that loved him more than they loved themselves holding his body, carrying him to share him with other strangers. It was unlike anything else he'd ever experienced. But those concerts were rare to begin with, and only became fewer and further between as his career persisted. But now, there are no good days left. There is only San Junipero, five hours a week.
What has he come to? But he doesn't think of that now, no--he's here to have a little fun for once.
The blond screeches to an abrupt halt in front of a bar and club type of venue. Neon lights flank the windows, beckoning warmly, artificially, and a steady stream of people make their way in through the front door of the place; a slower trickle leave. It's a healthy balance, Jasper decides, and twists the keys, pulls them out of the ignition, and steps out of the car.
Immediately, he is met by a youth in a uniform, clearly some kind of waiting staff of this establishment. "Excuse me, sir," he begins in a pitched tone, "You can't just--" his gaze wanders to the car haphazardly pulled in front, half of it teetering on the sidewalk. "I'm sorry, you cannot leave your car there. We don't have valet, you need to park it elsewhere."
He sighs, raises an eyebrow. Then he removes his sunglasses and folds them over the collar of his shirt, letting them rest right between his collar bones. Jasper meets the youth's eye. "Now you do," he tells him, and pushes his keys into his hands, which suddenly become outstretched and receptive before him. "Leave 'er out back, would ya?"
He is precisely aware of the impression he makes on people. This encounter, unexpected as it is, has shocked this youth to the core. He gazes at the man, only slightly older than him, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, at the very oldest, with clearly restrained awe. This is the decade he reached his peak in, after all; on the drive here, Jasper found himself staring himself--well, his airbrushed self--dead in the eyes in record store windows and the occasional freeway billboard on the rare occasions that he was stopped. Surely, he's going to be asked to sign things inside that bar (to which he always wonders why people ask, since it's not like they can take their shot glasses or t-shirts back with them). Evenings are rarely peaceful, but the sunglasses help dispel some of that attention.
Jasper watches with his guarded, sharp eyes as the waiter's expression shifts to one of skepticism, which, again, is something he's grown to be aware of. Comments like "I thought you'd be taller," or "I didn't realize you were that--how do I put it.. thin?" have become routine. The television is known to add ten pounds to people, and camera men have a certain way of making every man into an Adonis with their skill, but in reality, he's just human. He's an inch or two under six feet tall, with hunched shoulders and a slim, perhaps edging on just uncomfortably thin, build, and fading blond hair. What separates him from the average the most is his abundance of tattoos (on his hands, and chest, mostly, hidden from the average onlooker) and those eyes. Bitter, cold, also fading--unforgettable. They only added to his captivating stage aura.
The waiter swallows. ".. Yes, sir," he finally answers with some reluctance. The blond smirks, knowing he probably earned this youth a stern word from his supervisor about special favors for customers--and he'd insist, of course, that their humble bar had been visited by an actual celebrity, but who would believe him? The place is big, and crowded, and it was Jasper's intention to blend in with the crowd as best he could. Despite his fame, he's surprisingly good at keeping his head low when he wants to.
So he merges his way into the stream of entering people, is pushed against the door threshold, and finally, with some resistance, he's inside the place. After scanning over the dance floor and layout of the place for a couple short moments, he makes a beeline to the first open stool at the bar. "A rum and Coke, please," he murmurs across the tabletop to a bartender with his ear cocked towards him, and he sets down his glass and towel to get to working on his order. Jasper settles comfortably into the seat. If he can just get buzzed enough, this won't be too bad a time.
I might put on my response tomorrow.)
