America (Alfred F. Jones) || 1864 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ahousedivided) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2013-09-21 10:04 pm
ahousedivided) wrote in entrancelogs2013-09-21 10:04 pm
OPEN
Who: America, Dean Winchester, and open to anyone else who wants shenanigans
Where: THE CITY OFTOWNSVILLE WONDERLAND
When: Over the course of the superhero event (Oct 19-21)
Rating: Mostly silly dumb stuff but one thread will contain violence so… whatever the Dark Knight franchise is rated. PG-13? R??? Somewhere in that ballpark yeah
Summary: For interactions with Alfred (aka the "secret identity" and worse version of Peter Parker), press 1 for Friday. For epic battles of good versus evil (or just fucking with the weirdo in PJs), press 2 for Saturday. If you are Dean Winchester, please press 3 to insert knife into kidney on Sunday.
The Story:
Backstory: The 'I Looked This Up On Wikipedia So I Could Skip To The Good Stuff' Version
Alfred F. Jones was left on the doorstep of a New York orphanage with only a note saying "GOOD LUCK." The boy developed special powers early on, including super strength, incredible durability and healing, aim that would make a professional baseball player jealous, and a strange ability to have reality throw up its hands in exasperation and say "fuck it" in his presence.
By day he's merely Alfred, the nerdy kid obsessed with U.S. history, not too many friends, and 13 followers on Tumblr. By… other days, days when he doesn't want to study, or nights when his foster parents are being particularly neglectful and/or insomnia gets the best of him, he's AMERICA, a superhero with poor fashion choice and as powerful as the country he's named after.
(In this life, America--Alfred--can easily understand pop culture references. This will undoubtedly be exploited by his mun.)
And now you have all you need to know. Congratulations! You are now free to skip to a thread that is relevant to your interests.
Where: THE CITY OF
When: Over the course of the superhero event (Oct 19-21)
Rating: Mostly silly dumb stuff but one thread will contain violence so… whatever the Dark Knight franchise is rated. PG-13? R??? Somewhere in that ballpark yeah
Summary: For interactions with Alfred (aka the "secret identity" and worse version of Peter Parker), press 1 for Friday. For epic battles of good versus evil (or just fucking with the weirdo in PJs), press 2 for Saturday. If you are Dean Winchester, please press 3 to insert knife into kidney on Sunday.
The Story:
Backstory: The 'I Looked This Up On Wikipedia So I Could Skip To The Good Stuff' Version
Alfred F. Jones was left on the doorstep of a New York orphanage with only a note saying "GOOD LUCK." The boy developed special powers early on, including super strength, incredible durability and healing, aim that would make a professional baseball player jealous, and a strange ability to have reality throw up its hands in exasperation and say "fuck it" in his presence.
By day he's merely Alfred, the nerdy kid obsessed with U.S. history, not too many friends, and 13 followers on Tumblr. By… other days, days when he doesn't want to study, or nights when his foster parents are being particularly neglectful and/or insomnia gets the best of him, he's AMERICA, a superhero with poor fashion choice and as powerful as the country he's named after.
(In this life, America--Alfred--can easily understand pop culture references. This will undoubtedly be exploited by his mun.)
And now you have all you need to know. Congratulations! You are now free to skip to a thread that is relevant to your interests.
YE WANKERS IT BE CRIMBO SIX-A-BONG
"It's Crowley." He really actually thought the Serpens thing was cool at first, but now he just doesn't care. Tell that to the populace, though.
"And I'm not your bloody nemesis. If I was going to be anyone's nemesis, it wouldn't be some hyper-nationalistic brat's."
He notices people starting to vacate the vicinity. Sigh. This is going to come down to another pointless fight, he just knows it. Maybe he can get away before then.
"Can't you just let a bloke drink his tea in peace?"
SIX FECKING BONG???
From Alfred's standpoint it's solely because Crowley is the first "villain" he's ever encountered. Oh sure, he's had a long (and sometimes very personal) history with bad people, but taking those on was never much fun and the good he did was usually a hollow victory. There's little enjoyment in capturing a robber driven to steal by poverty or leaving the kids of drug lords to that well-known hell called foster care. But Crowley--a man dressed to the nines with demonic powers and motivated by (from Alfred's view) nothing but greed--he's a worthy foe that's exciting to fight. The first time he encountered the Brit, he'd been starstruck. It was like the opposite of love at first sight. In that moment he'd sworn he'd found his destiny. The Joker to his Batman. Or so he'd like to believe.
Whatever the reason may be, he's obviously not backing down. He drinks (slurps) his pumpkin spice latte with a leveled glare.
"Not Crowley either," he insists. "That's like... secret identity stuff. I'm not supposed to know your real name! Snake Eyes--c'mon, it's like, a gambling reference. Makes you think of sin and selfishness and that Rolling Stones song. Perfect for you!"
More annoying than his self-proclaimed rivalry with Crowley is his attempts to cultivate an over-the-top persona for the Brit. You're not doing it right, he squawks almost every time he talks (argues with) Crowley. At least he's not moving to really rumble yet. Until his coffee is gone he's going to keep up the pointless, dumb banter.
"And let's be honest here, there ain't nothin' peaceful about you. You're just plotting in silence while you sip on--what is that, Earl Grey? You couldn't even go for the Green Tea Latte? Diabolical."
Because on top of being a hyper-nationalistic brat he is also halfway to Hipstertown. Your life just gets worse and worse Crowley.
BANG UP THE KNACKERS AND SMACK YER MUM
He hisses at the mention of a green tea latte. "You mean that sugary sludge that looks like something you find in the bottom of your Tupperware after your leftovers have gone dodgy? Perish the thought."
OLL IN THE STREETS ITS SIX A-BONG!
Angrily downing his own drink, he finally stands up straight. "You may not be doin' anything now, but there's plenty you've done in the past I can still take ya in for. You gonna come quietly or am I gonna have to get physical?"
He already knows the answer. The Starbucks on this street is insured for far more than its worth with how often America picks fights here, so he isn't too worried about property damage. The city probably has a Damage Caused By Budding Heroes And/Or Villains fund anyway.
OLLY JOLLY IT'S SIX-A-BONG
He glares up at the kid, annoyance shifting over into frustrated anger. He really doesn't want a fight, least of all in public, least of all when there's a chance he might go all demon. It's not very much fun, and it tends to alert his enemies Downstairs.
"Can we not? We both know you don't have a shred of evidence." He made sure of that.
i hate us
A retort expected of any immature kid running around in bright spandex. America's self-imposed rivalry with Crowley has to be an effort on Hell's part to make his life as embarrassing as possible. There is no other explanation. No one else can be this unlucky.
Part of Alfred wants to haughtily claim that evidence isn't his job, but a little something called Innocent Until Proven Guilty makes him balk. It's one of this grand country's core principles. By that logic, Crowley is still an innocent man. And yet... how many people have been denied justice because of a technicality? He doesn't want to be a pessimist and bitterly wonder if anyone is really innocent, but surely if Crowley hasn't already committed a crime, he will in the future.
"Well, it worked in Minority Report," he thinks out loud. The fact that he is incorporating fiction into his perception of law speaks either to an immature understanding of the world or mental instability. It's really hard to tell with him sometimes.
"Anyway," he continues, "Evidence is for the courts to decide. You'll be judged by a jury of your peers and they'll decide your sentence. It's only my job to bring you in."
A suitable answer that solves his inner struggle. And though Crowley may be right and he will walk free, the nightmarish red tape of court dates, parole, appeals, and hours spent in interrogation rooms will at least be enough of a nuisance to keep Crowley from committing (more) crimes.
we are magical unicorns
No seriously, it's true. No one can be this unlucky.
It's kind of entertaining, watching America try to decide what to do. It's entertaining just watching him try to think. He always makes it look like it hurts.
Still, eventually the kid comes to a decision, and Crowley knows from experience that it's impossible to change America's mind when it's set on something. He sighs in a long-suffering way and sets the brochure down. He still has half a cup of tea left.
"Can I finish my tea before our pointless fight?"
no subject
"Ain't it cold by now?"
That's his way of saying yeah sure go for it. May as well take a seat while he waits. Alfred's drink is already gone and has to really fight the desire to order another. Last thing he needs is the urge to pee in the middle of a fight. He's left sitting across from his ~arch nemesis~ in heavy silence. Staring. Waiting for him to finish his tea.
no subject
He drinks the rest of his tea as slowly as a Brit can. The sacred art of faffing about. In another life, Crowley pretty much invented the concept.
no subject
Finally he just gets too frustrated and snatches the cup out of Crowley's hand.
"OKAY YOU'RE DONE."
no subject
Listen bro.
You don't fuck with an Englishman's tea okay. You just fucking don't.
Crowley's on his feet on the next moment. That's the cue for everyone still in the area to flee.
"What exactly is your problem with me, boy?" he snarls, his eyes starting to glow, his fingers starting to turn into claws. "I've never done anything to you."
no subject
He grins right at those glowing eyes, pouring the rest of the tea out and throwing the cup in the newly formed puddle. Not quite as effective at sending a message as the Boston Tea Party but he had to improvise. Close enough.
"My problem is that you always manage to slip by the law," he says, pointing an accusing finger at Crowley. "You think you're above everyone else, that just 'cause you got some underworld connections and money you can just waltz around and do whatever you want without consequence! I may not be able to stop you permanently, but I can sure as heck slow you down."
no subject
A cliched demonic supervillain has to have a cliched comeback to that little speech there.
"Mate, you have no idea how underworld."
He swipes at the air with those claws and a streak of fire blasts toward America.
no subject
And here we are.
Alfred watches the transformation with awe. Watching those massive wings unfold, the tail lash out like Indiana Jones' whip, he actually has to take a step back and use his fingers to make a square frame to squint through. Imagine how cool Crowley would look in the dark corridors of an ancient church, the stained glass behind him shining the colors of Biblical figures down on his mighty visage... holy shit what a photo that would be! It would be so perfect for his blog--
Maybe he should consider that later though. You know, when he's not in the middle of battle. A good swipe of those claws is enough to knock him out of his fantasies and go crashing butt-over-head into a nearby table. His hand reaches out to spring back until he feels a sharp pain in his side and hears something tear and in that split second he actually prays that it's only clothing and not skin.
He's relatively lucky this time. The good news it was his goofy costume ripping to reveal skin, some of which has some older bruises on a crash-course to healing. The bad news is that those claws still struck home and he's bleeding from shallow gashes in his side. Well fuck.
Crowley was successful at wiping the arrogant smirk off of his face. Now he's just glaring like a punk who'd been itching to lash out all day (which is less of a simile and more of an actuality). Spitting some blood out on the pavement, he throws the metal table he'd fallen on directly at the demon. Without missing a beat he dodges some fire and rips a parking meter out of the ground.
Which he's now wielding like a baseball bat.
Which he's now attempting to slam into Crowley's back.
no subject
Crowley would be pretty pleased to know that America was admiring him, but right now he's just very irritated. He still doesn't want to actually kill the asshole--he's just a kid, after all, albeit an asshole--so he's holding back. A little. He could have swiped at America's throat instead of at his midsection.
The table throw is actually a pretty decent tactic. It's solid enough that Crowley has to pay attention to it and knock it out of the air, an it also obscures his vision. So he doesn't see the parking meter coming until it's too late to dodge.
He rolls his body a bit so that the parking meter hits the meat of his back instead of his actual spine. He snarls in pain as the blow crumples one wing and the parking meter itself shatters, sending a beautiful and annoying scatter of quarters everywhere. Oh man there was like fifty bucks in quarters in that thing, what a waste. Maybe if Crowley has time after the fight is over he can come back and scoop them all up. That's a nice dinner and some wine, that is.
He spins and lashes out with his tail, aiming to either sweep America's legs out from under him or maybe even lift him by an ankle and toss him somewhere. Preferably through the plate glass of the Starbucks.
no subject
If only that weird guy with the mask hadn't suddenly disappeared. Alfred could really use one of those purification bats right now. Oh if only. But there is no time now to bemoan the wonderful bats that could have been; the second that parking meter explodes into a shower of dazzling coins, Alfred is on the search for a replacement. Isn't metal supposed to dent, not shatter? What the in the hell sort of meat does Crowley have on his bones?!
The self-proclaimed hero doesn't get very far, not with that tail snatching him by the ankle. On reflex he curls into a ball to minimize the impact of whatever he's about to crash into. Or do a canon-ball, whichever.
All things considered he can't tell if smacking into glass or brick is worse. Brick definitely hurts worse, but it's does arguably less damage than glass shards. Cuts everywhere as he smashes into that window. At least they heal fast and there isn't any real damage this time, not like that one fight where he ended up with a big shard of glass in his eye. It did not help his already terrible vision.
He doesn't emerge for a few moments. Hell, it doesn't look like anything is moving in that Starbucks for a few moments. With all the blood on the window it's looking like Crowley might have actually killed him.
But Crowley is never that lucky.
With a shard sticking out of his leg, Alfred hobbles out with a defiant glare. One hand clutches a book, likely something from the Barnes & Nobles this Starbucks is attached to, while the other carries a big bottle of salt. He has no idea how demons work, but he figures chucking a Bible at his head will at least leave a bruise and, if his aim is right, a little salt in the eyes will slow him down.
no subject
If only Zacharie would come backarie then America might have a chance. Sadly, life is hard. Crowley watches America sail through the window of the Starbucks, feeling pretty good about himself, since it's like "take that Corporate America," almost literally.
He takes the opportunity to spread his wings and rise into the air, though he moves a bit clumsily--that parking meter's gonna leave a mark, ow. He's starting to get a little worried when America takes his sweet time coming out. He didn't want to actually kill the brat.
But it's basically impossible to kill America, and here he comes wielding a freaking Bible, wow, where did he even get that?
"You have absolutely got to be kidding me."
Fortunately he's pretty sure America doesn't know which passages to read.