In classic 'The-Powers-That-Be-Have-It-Out-For-Me' fashion, Spike plummeted through the big, blue shiny fold in reality and came nose first with a dirty cavern floor, none too quietly. If asked, he'd remark that the screaming that happened simultaneously was from the other bloke nearby — yeah, just missed him. Funny, that. All of that aside, he found he was less concerned with his ego and more worried about the eerily familiar whispering that currently plagued him like an incessant buzzing. (Been there, done that. Didn't much care for the voices in the head shenanigans, thank you.)
"What's all this, then?" He sniffed disinterestedly.
(Listen, when you've been to one wacky dimension, you've practically been to them all.)
Sooner rather than later, it became apparent that no answer was coming by standing still. Regardless of what he was leaving behind, the whats-it with the magic was gone, like the rift had never been there. As much as Spike would prefer to ignore the whole ordeal and stride down a third unforeseen path to make his own way in the world, he followed the girl. Wasn't there always a girl?
Seconds turned to minutes to hours and what remained true in all dimensions seemed to be the need to prattle on needlessly about something or other, explaining every minor detail. He wasn't turned yesterday. At the first opportunity, Spike slipped from the gathered cluster of newcomers — some which looked ill-equipped, others who might have stood a chance — to get away from all the noise.
( I. ) The first thing he was interested in getting over with was feeding without an audience. Slayer Central had never been notorious for being open-minded and he expected that Cleveland was no different, even with a reputation that might have proceeded him (if anyone here actually survived the cratering of Sunnydale). It was as good an excuse as any, really, to escape the rah-rah-good-guy rallying. Anyone that popped into the kitchen was going to be faced with a bag of blood getting poured into a coffee mug and set in the microwave and the biggest look of indifference in all of history.
"I'm a growing boy." He explained dryly, followed by nothing else.
( II. ) Otherwise, he could be found in common rooms, particularly if there are televisions available. Or even in the gym, should someone want a sparring partner. Almost as though he was determined to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Certainly not because he was avoiding a run-in with someone(s) he might already know.
RESSERUCTION CEMETERY
"Well, don't look at me, mate. I'm on my legally provided rest break."
What should you not say to a newly risen vampire? That, probably. What with the rage and the bloodlust, all at an undeniable peak after having clawed free from their own grave. Spike didn't seem to care much about that, considering . . . well, everything. He looked perfectly at ease, perched atop a headstone, idly examining his new cellphone and playing none other than Candy Crush Saga. The future was brilliant.
Although, should someone scream ( and he was at a good pausing point ), he could be inclined to intervene.
A PARTY TO CRASH - THE ODEON
Zero out of ten — not that there were critics about, shaking him down for his two cents about the club. Or the town. ...Or the cult.
You know, a man dies and it's supposed to mean something! Not just a brief reprieve. The First they took out in the crater should have been The Last. Not even a smile springs forth at what he did there and he usually was quite fond of his own wordplay. It was a bone he had to pick for months, trapped in Wolfram & Hart, unable to leave and here it was again, unburied at his feet. He thought he was over it. Made his peace, threw in with a new team, and yet. Some things weren't easily compartmentalized.
Misery, party of one, had a little less stalk to his step than the ire he currently felt when he stepped outside into the cool night.
He pulled out a cigarette from the pack in his jacket, put it between his lips, only to discover a new nail in his boot. His lighter was missing. Naturally.
Forced into small talk, the true horror of the multiverse.
"Hey," he called to the person nearest without much of a real lookover. "Got a light?"
(OOC: rolling with post-series on both buffy and angel here, for anyone curious! haven't decided if i want to play with the comic!verse or not yet, but will probably vague it up with canonmates until i decide? come at me! wildcard is also an option if none of these starters intrigue anyone. i can match prose or brackets. )
spike — buffy the vampire slayer/angel
In classic 'The-Powers-That-Be-Have-It-Out-For-Me' fashion, Spike plummeted through the big, blue shiny fold in reality and came nose first with a dirty cavern floor, none too quietly. If asked, he'd remark that the screaming that happened simultaneously was from the other bloke nearby — yeah, just missed him. Funny, that. All of that aside, he found he was less concerned with his ego and more worried about the eerily familiar whispering that currently plagued him like an incessant buzzing. (Been there, done that. Didn't much care for the voices in the head shenanigans, thank you.)
"What's all this, then?" He sniffed disinterestedly.
(Listen, when you've been to one wacky dimension, you've practically been to them all.)
Sooner rather than later, it became apparent that no answer was coming by standing still. Regardless of what he was leaving behind, the whats-it with the magic was gone, like the rift had never been there. As much as Spike would prefer to ignore the whole ordeal and stride down a third unforeseen path to make his own way in the world, he followed the girl. Wasn't there always a girl?
Seconds turned to minutes to hours and what remained true in all dimensions seemed to be the need to prattle on needlessly about something or other, explaining every minor detail. He wasn't turned yesterday. At the first opportunity, Spike slipped from the gathered cluster of newcomers — some which looked ill-equipped, others who might have stood a chance — to get away from all the noise.
RESSERUCTION CEMETERY
"Well, don't look at me, mate. I'm on my legally provided rest break."
What should you not say to a newly risen vampire? That, probably. What with the rage and the bloodlust, all at an undeniable peak after having clawed free from their own grave. Spike didn't seem to care much about that, considering . . . well, everything. He looked perfectly at ease, perched atop a headstone, idly examining his new cellphone and playing none other than Candy Crush Saga. The future was brilliant.
Although, should someone scream ( and he was at a good pausing point ), he could be inclined to intervene.
A PARTY TO CRASH - THE ODEON
Zero out of ten — not that there were critics about, shaking him down for his two cents about the club. Or the town. ...Or the cult.
You know, a man dies and it's supposed to mean something! Not just a brief reprieve. The First they took out in the crater should have been The Last. Not even a smile springs forth at what he did there and he usually was quite fond of his own wordplay. It was a bone he had to pick for months, trapped in Wolfram & Hart, unable to leave and here it was again, unburied at his feet. He thought he was over it. Made his peace, threw in with a new team, and yet. Some things weren't easily compartmentalized.
Misery, party of one, had a little less stalk to his step than the ire he currently felt when he stepped outside into the cool night.
He pulled out a cigarette from the pack in his jacket, put it between his lips, only to discover a new nail in his boot. His lighter was missing. Naturally.
Forced into small talk, the true horror of the multiverse.
"Hey," he called to the person nearest without much of a real lookover. "Got a light?"